nonsensical text

blog time

2011-03-19T11:50:00.000-04:00

There is something about the passage of time which is misleading. Some days are very long indeed, but suddenly, upon looking backward, months have passed, and it is difficult to pinpoint exactly when they did so. So it is with this blog. Weekly, I would begin to write a post in my head. Weekly, I would convince myself I was actually going to type it up (usually on Mondays – a remnant of Sleeping with Bread), and yet when Tuesday came, I would postpone my goal for yet another week instead of writing it anyway.

I looked back at some archives this week and couldn’t believe that my most prolific posting was in 2006 and 2007. I can’t even believe I have had a blog for that long, let alone that is has been mostly idle for the past several years.

In the same way, life around these parts is passing. My second born turned eighteen yesterday, and he is about to graduate from high school. It doesn’t seem that long ago that we first dropped him off at the doors. Granted, it was only four years since he was homeschooled through eighth grade, but still…..

One would think that this passage of time would have spawned the basis for many blog posts, but the truth is, I have had varying versions of the same post running through my head the entire time. It’s all about motivation – or lack thereof.

When I was younger, most specifically in my teens and twenties, I took great pride in certain things. As a teenager, I was fond of uttering the self-truth that I was extraordinarily proud of my inferiority complex, “I feel more inferior than you feel, and I’ll prove it!” But that was not the extent of my pride. Silent pride covered my intelligence, my thinness without exercise, my ability to look into someone’s eyes and know their pain on a personal level. It has taken me this many years to realize how misdirected my pride actually is. You see, I seem only to revel in those accomplishments I had nothing to say about. Through my pride in them, I am taking credit for God’s work – those natural abilities borne into my genes. I don’t like working for anything.

I don’t know whether laziness or fear has been the prime motivator, but the fact remains. I don’t like doing anything that doesn’t come easily to me. Speaking to people on a deep level when I am vulnerable myself – when I have hidden weakness and don’t want to admit it, making phone calls to just about anyone (but doctors and businesses are the most difficult), writing when the words don’t just flow from my fingertips: these are things I avoid like the plague. And now that my earlier prides don’t come so naturally, well, I avoid thinking about them too.

S, the second born, has a quality he leeched directly from his mother. Whenever trying something new, he watches. To the outside observer, he would appear not to be interested at all, but he is watching with intensity. Then, off in his own corner of the world, he practices. He is not willing to try anything in front of others if he is not absolutely sure he can do it. Only a small fraction of the things observed ever make it to the stage of public opinion. As an onlooker, I see the pity in this. So many talents don’t see the light of day because they are rough, raw, and imperfect.

And yet this fear of failure is pride as well. I do not judge others harshly. I am usually able to acknowledge the strength without tearing apart the weakness. And yet, somehow I feel that I cannot fail in front of others and choose instead not to even try. Logically, I know that the result of this action is failure every time while trying would result in the possibility of at least some success. Also, I would have a lot more right to pride for trying, and even possibly succeeding, in something that doesn’t come naturally to me. Instead of stealing God’s glory and staking claim to its privileges, I could acknowledge those glories as His, freeing me up to stop trying to do other things on my own power and steam- learning instead to lean on Him to help me through the rough patches and wash away the fear.

Time will tell, though I expect it might take me years to look back and see what it says.

for mel

2011-03-13T14:46:00.002-04:00

I am hereby making a commitment to post SOMETHING this week. Now, I will try my hardest not to let that something just be a single sentence, but I am fully aware of my tendency toward procrastination and forgetfulness, so no guarantee!

maybe one word will help

2010-05-07T00:06:00.003-04:00

Looking at the date on my last post makes me intensely aware of just how good I am at ignoring the obvious. I still think about posting at least once every week, so I am able to think of myself as a blogger who hasn't written in a little while. Yeah, right. I don't really have anything to say right now (or, conversely, I have too much to say about nothing in particular, and I don't have confidence in my ability to spend the typing time with arthritic fingers and a very sleepy brain). I am hereby posting this paragraph in an attempt to jar myself into action. I don't want to be silent forever.

thankful

2008-11-27T22:30:00.000-05:00

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

2008-10-17T11:15:00.001-04:00

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

2008-10-07T23:48:00.002-04:00

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

2008-09-09T01:52:00.003-04:00

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

2008-08-22T03:11:00.003-04:00

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?

2008-08-19T01:55:00.001-04:00

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

2008-08-14T23:47:00.003-04:00

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

2008-04-25T00:16:00.003-04:00

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

2008-04-22T01:51:00.003-04:00

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

2008-04-15T20:39:00.003-04:00

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

2008-04-04T09:16:00.002-04:00

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

2008-03-31T23:09:00.003-04:00

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

2008-02-07T17:17:00.000-05:00

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

2008-01-25T09:04:00.000-05:00

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

2008-01-15T08:07:00.000-05:00

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!

the refrigerator

2007-12-28T10:01:00.000-05:00

The outside of a person and the inside of a person are often very different things. I’m not talking about muscles and blood and body organs either. Inside of each human, there is a depth that makes them tick, gives them purpose, and defines who they are.

Refrigerators are backwards.

On the inside of a refrigerator, you will find the foods which sustain us, but which also go into the make-up of our external bodies – the foods which nourish us and those which add character to our hips, our waists – our outward frames.

In many homes, the outside of a refrigerator is rife with preschool drawings and family pictures. Our home isn’t much different in its capacity to show the inner workings of the mind – the medium is just different.

There is a chore calendar – laminated in hopefulness to allow a white board marker the freedom to cross off accomplished chores. It bears no marks.

There is an enormous magnetic band-aid perched above the memo pads for recording needed groceries (blank) and telephone numbers for callback purposes (also blank).

There are various free magnets from assorted solicitors by mail.

There is a bumper sticker, held down with an earth magnet, bearing the words Fat people are harder to kidnap.

And there is a new addition.

On Thanksgiving, at my sister’s house, the entire family enjoyed playing with the magnetic words they had on their refrigerator. This enjoyment was obvious enough that my mother gifted us with our own set for Christmas.

While our ponderings varied from silly to profound upon my sister’s cooling vessel, they have yet to gain such loft on our own.

From the freckled boy on Thanksgiving came these haunting words:

Speak the word slowly as though a whisper can be judged.

He is a bit amazed at all of the fuss those words received claiming not to truly understand them himself. I, on the other hand, have contemplated the heritage of assembling text that somehow speaks the inner workings of the soul while remaining only the messenger that carries them to the outside world.

But alas, perhaps our own refrigerator’s surface just as accurately captures the little idiosyncrasies that make us who we are.

The Drama King (9):

Pedal when drunk
and
crush the light

driving could be eternity

The Freckled One (12):

pound, stare, and love a puppy

The N Boy (17):

I as wet of a storm
smell beauty spring and
sausage heave

Spongebob (6):

TV’s purple finger
why love time

The Brat (old):

drool sweet juice there in the dream
music of honey spray

Da Man (older):

Stop leaving a smear

And a bonus anonymous entry (which may be attributed to the Instigator (14)):

Dress in shaking peaches
blood is behind shining pictures

I’m sure the Pink One will be contributing soon, but she has yet to learn how to sound out words. Once she does, I am betting we are all in trouble.

still kicking (and screaming)

2007-12-27T16:24:00.000-05:00

I just wanted to let you all know that I am okay. Things have even gotten somewhat better in all of the unmentionable directions. I will certainly try to be back soon with more substance.

-the brat

bread pudding

2007-12-11T08:25:00.000-05:00

There is a certain stillness that emanates from the not quite comfortable cushions of the visitor’s chair in a hospital room. It whispers of mortality and importance. It beckons deep thought while the outer crust of awareness seeks distraction. I find myself struggling to evade the level of openness necessary for baking bread. Given the complexity of the situation, my hesitation is understandable. It isn’t a matter of a mere can of worms – more in the order of an industrial sized vat.

There has been a lot of rawness this past week. Finding a balance between searching my soul and maintaining some privacy is no small feat. But bread must be made and ingredients must be measured.

Is it consolation or desolation to have a loved one hit rock bottom? That question still hangs, uncertain, in front of me. For you see, rock bottom is a catalyst for intervention, which is a motivating factor in upward motion. And that motion would be considered consolation…or should be. There is always the possibility that the loved will wish to hang out in the pit for awhile.

Could I be any more cryptic? It is doubtful. Perhaps I will find the words to be less mysterious soon. For now, I hold fast to the consolation that God hears my prayers, and He holds the fragile bits of me in his ever capable hands – much safer than being in my own.

rose colored glasses

2007-12-06T10:08:00.000-05:00

So yesterday, shortly after making red kool-aid, I had to blow my nose. Ah, the pinkness! I don't know how to remedy this. I have tried putting a little water in the bottom of the container first to reduce airborn dust among other methods.

The question is, since I have a two paned window directly above the sink and kool-aid is made pretty regularly in the House of Brat, would it be reasonable to assume that I am looking at the world through rose colored glasses?

I hope so. I can use all the help I can get.

breaking the fast

2007-12-03T10:55:00.001-05:00

sleeping with bread

airing the laundry

It is hard to start a post when you know you are going to fight yourself over hitting the ‘publish’ button.

I have been lauded in the past for being open and honest about trials and tribulations in my life. I have taken those praises like a guilt-slap. For you see, it is very hard for me to write or speak anything emotionally searing, open, or honest until sufficient time has passed to allow me some distance. I can be brutally real as long as I am talking about something that has, largely, already been neatly categorized, dealt with, and filed under “loss” or “depression” or “mistakes to learn from”.

In April of this year, I wrote a poem. It wasn’t a particularly good poem, but it was an honest expression of how I was feeling at the time. In a fit of bravado, I posted it to my blog. It stayed there for all of 1 ½ minutes before I took it down – too raw to risk.

I have posted many things about the loss of my son Caleb – deep and personal things, but I didn’t manage to work up the courage to write online (even among a group of women experiencing the same loss) until almost a year after his birth.

I think I had hoped that with a blog, I would have a canvas for those raw emotions. As a teen, I carried pen and paper with me everywhere I went in case the need to write encompassed me. Much of what made it to paper in those days was, quite honestly, horrendous, but the very act of releasing it onto the paper was a salve.

I don’t feel free to write like that anymore. There are too many people that could be impacted by it. The newest emotions are often jagged-edged. Their barbs stick into vulnerable bits of exposed flesh. They are the gut-reaction, pre-school tantrum, “Woe is me” cries of uncensored id. Yet, this very aversion to writing it out may be affecting that same vulnerable flesh in everything I say and do. Without release, those emotions tend to leech into the unrelated actions of day to day life.

the should principle

Some of them are little things which slowly build into seemingly enormous piles. Some of them are birthed from self-doubt and insecurity. Some of them are selfish desires unmet. Still others are legitimate reasons for irritation. All of them act as catalyst to churning emotion. I know for a fact that I should feel freedom simply by releasing these things to God in prayer. And largely, I do, but there is ingrained in my pores the need to physically release them too.

When I write of consolation and desolation, the desolation is always drawn from the deep well of emotional necessity. The consolation? Most frequently the high notes are tacked upon the end because my mind recognizes them as truth. Often, I have yet to develop the ability to “feel” that truth. It is an act of will to place them in front of my eyes as the goal, the joy, the ideal. It is true that this very act does help to refocus my vision, but I wonder. Am I holding onto a small seed of resentment when I choose to hold up the silver lining? Am I wishing that, somehow, someway, someone would simply notice the little desolations and scare them away so that consoling would not be necessary? Am I holding back a portion of each desolation in order to pull it out later for use as a weapon, a brooding point, or an excuse?

I have often said that I am trapped in Romans 7: 14-25.

14 For we know that the law is spiritual, but I am carnal, sold under sin. 15 For what I am doing, I do not understand. For what I will to do, that I do not practice; but what I hate, that I do. 16 If, then, I do what I will not to do, I agree with the law that it is good. 17 But now, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells in me. 18 For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh) nothing good dwells; for to will is present with me, but how to perform what is good I do not find. 19 For the good that I will to do, I do not do; but the evil I will not to do, that I practice. 20 Now if I do what I will not to do, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells in me.

21 I find then a law, that evil is present with me, the one who wills to do good. 22 For I delight in the law of God according to the inward man. 23 But I see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members. 24 O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?

25 I thank God—through Jesus Christ our Lord! So then, with the mind I myself serve the law of God, but with the flesh the law of sin.

I repeat verse 25- drilling it into my brain. I do thank…I do. But, I have so much trouble moving on to the first verse of Romans 8.

1 There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus, who do not walk according to the flesh, but according to the Spirit.

I believe it. I do. But I don’t usually feel it.

And today, as I continue reading Romans 8, I notice that it talks of being spiritually-minded, not spiritually-feelinged. It sparks a small hope in me. I guess, sometimes, I just wish acknowledging that would make the battle go away without me having to actually put any effort into it. How’s that for honesty? Like the grasshopper, I want all of the benefit and none of the work. I am sick of the work. I want to curl up and be cared for and coddled. I want to be without responsibility. I grow tired of being the one in charge – especially when viewing my shortcomings.

And perhaps the need to write it all out stems simply from my repeated attempts to fill a place in my heart (that will only tolerate perfection) with fallible humans - myself, my husband, my children, my family and friends. When will I rest in the knowledge that the spot is already filled with a perfection found only in God?

I set my mind to the goal.

I pray my feelings learn to follow.

that poem from april:

subdermal

trapped by the ankle
pulled forcefully into fissure
camouflaged by underbrush
as silent scream rings out and pierces
nothing

passing frames
seek only
what is directly in their line of sight,
or the limitless tasks
waiting to be prioritized
by their mind’s eye.

inaudible pleas,
beseeching eyes,
mere inches away -
grasping
for anything
to slow the slide.

solitude of thought.

-tle 4/14/07

collage

2007-11-21T08:20:00.000-05:00

There are a bunch of couch cushions scattered randomly through at least three rooms of the house. Toys are strewn about haphazardly. Everything needs to be vacuumed, dusted, scrubbed or decontaminated. The “To Do” list would be a mile long if I could be bothered to make it. Through practice, I am getting better at looking around without seeing any of it.

Notebooks and textbooks balance precariously on the radiator cover. Whiteboard markers slowly lose moisture through the hairline gap which is the difference between full closure and…not. Two week old spelling words taunt from the sidelines, “Yo! Ya still remember how to spell us?”

An empty tissue box houses a naked Barbie and a Transformer. The ear thermometer takes up semi-permanent residence on the kitchen counter. The laundry and dishes are relatively contained at last.

In everything, give thanks.

the box on the shelf

2007-11-14T10:32:00.000-05:00

When I was younger, I was always quite proud of the fact that I was not a very materialistic person, but like so many of my self-interpretations from years gone by, close inspection sometimes highlights unexpected details. I like my things – my TV, my computer, my moist-heat heating pad, my pillows and blankets, my music. I enjoy having an ability I didn’t have for most of my life (including many of the married years) – that ability to get what I feel like eating from the grocery store. I have become rather attached to some of the more material aspects of my life.

Julie from Using My Words (formerly The Ravin’ Picture Maven) says this about the Hump Day Hmmm Today: “I am so distressed for the people of California who've been affected by this fire. 1600 of them so far have lost their homes, lost everything. It's made me think about loss, what we value, and potential gain. Let's write about that. Imagine losing all your material possessions (except the few you can carry)... Or, tell us a story about some sort of loss. If you can inspire through hope, and tell us about something you gained from it, and real value, please definitely do that.”

A question that is sometimes thrown out for pondering among friends is this: “If your house was on fire and all of the people and animals were already out safely, what would you try to save?” As a child, I got to test this theory when the firemen arrived at our door one day. We lived in a town home, and one of our neighbors had a furnace which exploded. There was a fear that this explosion was going to set off a chain reaction, so the firemen were evacuating our entire court. I grabbed my favorite stuffed animal and my guinea pig as I chased the cat out the door. Weighing my answer today against my answer so many years ago, I guess I haven’t really changed that much. The first things I would reach for would be the irreplaceable things – the photos, the poetry, and one very special box. Ironically, that box already represents loss, and sacrificing it on top of the injury already sustained would be a sore trial indeed though the contents would seem too trivial to merit such a reaction – a few cards, a few pictures, a very small, satiny nightgown, and a simple knitted hat.

On Friday or Saturday, I will open that box. I will allow my fingers to touch the cloth and the cards, my eyes to scan the visible remnants; I will allow the tears to come. I am a bit hesitant to figuratively open that box today, so close to the anniversary of that day. There is a risk to opening the floodgates prematurely and allowing the associated emotion to wash over me. My suspicion is that the built-up melancholy on this particular year is enough to overwhelm me.

Ten years ago, on Sunday November 16, I went to church as I have on most Sundays in my married life. After church, I was worn out, antsy – perhaps the best way to describe that day is simply to excerpt some letters I wrote a few weeks later.

December 7, 1997 (two weeks 6 days)

Dearest Caleb-

In about three hours, it will mark three weeks since your father and I left for the hospital to find out you were gone. Just about an hour ago (that week), you were jumping around inside of me. When I came home from church, I was so tired. Nothing was unusual about that; I was tired every moment that I carried you. I went upstairs to take a nap at about 3 and had a lot of trouble sleeping soundly. When I finally woke up, around 4:00, I was in terrible pain. It felt a lot like labor with your oldest brother, except there was no break between the pains. I was worried. I told your father, “Either I am severely constipated or I am in labor.” He responded that I couldn’t be in labor. Oh, if we only knew how wrong he was. A few minutes later I looked down to notice that I was bleeding. That was when I really got scared. But my son, I never thought you would die before you were even born!

Going to the hospital, I tried to comfort myself by thinking of what they would probably do - administer drugs to stop the labor, observe us for some time, and send us home. I prayed that I would end up feeling stupid for going to the hospital when nothing was wrong.

The nurse strapped the monitor to me and immediately we heard a heartbeat, but she looked concerned and took my pulse. She then moved the monitor, stating that I was so upset that it was picking up my heartbeat instead of yours. No matter where she moved it, she kept coming up with my heartbeat. So, when they wheeled in the machine to do the sonogram, I was quite aware of the fact that there was no heartbeat in your chest - that you were just lying there, little fists clenched, motionless. I didn’t want to believe what I saw, so I didn’t let it sink in quite yet. Then, they told us what we saw. They explained the blood clot next to the placenta. They told us you were gone. Still, it wasn’t real. I didn’t think I would grieve until later. I do tend to be delayed reactionary.

I still had to deliver you. They would administer pitocin to try to induce active labor. You needed to come out of me. As long as I did not start hemorrhaging severely, that meant vaginal birth. In the state of shock I was in, I could deal with delivering you, or I could deal with the pain, but I could not deal with both! I didn’t just want an epidural, I wanted drugs! I did NOT want to think. I did not want to feel! I got the drugs - something called Stadol, which is in the Valium family, AND the epidural. But, nothing took the pain away. When the Stadol would first start working, I was okay - a bit oblivious to everything around me. But soon, it would begin to wear off, and my emotions would wake back up, and I couldn’t take the pain. I couldn’t take the pain of childbirth, knowing that I wouldn’t have you at the end of it. I am afraid I was quite a baby.

When the time came to push you out, I was screaming in anger at the world. I was screaming that it hurt so badly…that I didn’t want to push, to have the pain - that I just wanted you out of me! And then there you were. I had hoped, even through all of this, that somehow, miraculously, you would be alive, even after all we had seen with our own eyes. I remembered those times that Christ chose to bring people back from the grave. Even when I saw that you weren’t alive, a part of me hoped that when I touched your fingers, some of the life would come out of me and breathe into you the life that was so obviously absent. I wanted to make up for whatever it was that I did that took you from me. I could not stop feeling that I killed you.

You didn’t breathe. You didn’t suddenly come to life like the ending of a Disney movie. You were out of my reach forever. I kissed you and held you as tears wracked my body. I looked at your father and cried out “He’s dead! Our sweet baby is dead!” Even knowing you were gone, I could not let go of you. Oh how tempted I was to play the “what if” game. But I knew there was no healing in that. I knew nothing could come of it and I just had to face the fact that you were gone forever.

You were born one minute after midnight, so technically, the date on everything is the 17th of November, but to me, it will always be the 16th because on that day I knew you were gone.

I was so concerned about the wellness of everyone else - the nurses, your Mom Mom and Pop Pop, my mother. I had to let you go…they needed to do a D&C on me to remove the massive blood clots. They promised me I could see you again after if I so desired. Although they couldn’t knock me out to give birth to you, they could to remove the blood - and they did. I don’t remember how long it was - I don’t really remember getting to the operating room or to the recovery room after. I do remember seeing your father and eventually both of our mothers afterward. I do remember holding you again - kissing you again - trying to convince myself to let them put you in that bassinet and wheel you away forever. I do remember sitting, alone and awake in the middle of the night after everyone had gone home. I felt as though I could sleep if only they brought you to me. I could curl up with you in my arms and drift off into dreams. But, I refrained from asking for this - knowing somehow that to do this would be entering into a long path of denial. So instead, I flicked through channels on the TV as I stared off into space feeling emptier than I ever had in my life.

When I looked into a mirror, I was so swollen that I was not recognizable as myself. But beyond that, the eyes that stared back at me were not my own. Oh sweet Caleb, I couldn’t see ever getting past the loss that I felt that day!

Today, as I sat in church, I felt sort of numb and disconnected. Nothing feels like it means as much and yet every feeling seems so much more vivid and weighty. At most times, I am able to live life again. Something changed about a week ago that gave me the ability to move forward. Through all of this, I have felt the hand of our almighty Lord upon me, holding me together when I could not hold myself - letting me cry upon His shoulder when I needed it - drying my tears when the crying time was spent. But now, I can see moving onward. I am able to look at the future again without viewing it ONLY in regards to what stage we would have been in with you, had things been different.

I don’t really know where I go from here, my sweet child. I know only that I need to keep my eyes on God lest I shatter. I miss you.

Time passes, wounds heal, scars fade. But that box? It holds the only physical proof I have of my son’s life. I know with all of my being that losing everything we call our own would sear me deeply, but I also know that they are just things. I have lost more than things in my life, and God upheld me.

There is, in times of deep vulnerability, a spark which smolders, a spark so small that it can often only be seen in retrospect. The survival instinct, the fighting spirit instilled within us by our creator feeds on that spark and grows. Sometimes, the beauty of gratitude, of priorities, of community spirit is allowed to shine so brightly only because the many concealing layers of the extraneous have been peeled away.

Today, so close to the ten year anniversary of Caleb’s death, I am thankful for the friends I have made that would never have crossed my path had it not been for our mutual losses. My prayers are with any and all who experience heart-rending dispossession whether it be material or emotional. I hope that they are able to turn their eyes away from what isn’t and seek comfort in gratitude for what remains.

It may be trite, but there is some truth to the saying, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

leaves

2007-11-11T00:19:00.000-05:00

I can remember autumn-soft days from years gone by when the crispness in the air sent vigor through my nerves. Me, walking amid the slant-altered light and pre-crisp leaves – fallen – while others still held tenuously affixed to the brighter than blue bulletin board of sky. I remember the sense of deep Creator knowledge that embodied my visible breaths.

These days, my autumn view is far more likely to consist of four walls and several whiteboards, spelling lists and solitaire, dirty laundry and red-exed calendar boxes. But, every so often, even in my urban setting, when I am rounding a bend in the road on my marching band participant retrieval route, the light and colors will tenderly awe me, and I remember what it is like to be whole.

random ponderings

2007-11-05T23:38:00.000-05:00

There are definite disadvantages to being female when you live in an old house...

...especially at five in the morning when your bathrooms don't have heat.

Just sayin'.

And there you have it, the deep thoughts which took an entire month to brew.

Wasn't it worth the wait?

killing the yeast

2007-10-02T09:09:00.000-04:00

sleeping with bread

Some days are better than others. Friday was an ‘other’.

Over the years, a parent develops a set of warning signs that misbehavior is afoot. Sometimes, out of sheer exhaustion (or laziness), the brain tunes out the warning signs in the interest of five more minutes of quality vegetable imitation. And sometimes the warning signs change.

I sent the youngest three upstairs to get ready for bed. The older kids were already in their rooms achieving lofty goals – or the next level on their games as the case may be - so I planned to let the littles play for a bit before venturing up the stairs. The darlings began playing together with soft giggles and periodic bursts of greater laughter.

There was none of that eerie quiet, you know the one – it signals imminent disaster.

There were no screams and yells or conspiratorial whispers.

No strange thumps resounded through the hallway.

In fact, there wasn’t a single warning until the DK (drama king) quietly came down the stairs in search of towels. I have to admit my curiosity was piqued enough to inspire rapid motion.

That forward momentum came to an abrupt halt upon reaching the top of the stairs. Approximately ½ inch of water covered the floor in much of the hallway and bathroom. Children, with suddenly guilt-ridden faces, grasped surgical gloves and baby wipe containers tightly to their chests. Spongebob played a marching song on a vacuum cleaner tube trumpet acquired from the base of the dyson by virtue of a screwdriver and thirty seconds of solitude.

Fragmented: existing or functioning as though broken into separate parts; disorganized; disunified.

It would be reasonable to say that ‘fragmented’ was an apt descriptor of the momma bear’s reaction. Like a super-sized grenade, the explosion sent shards of recrimination in search of soft flesh. Harsh words flew off the ends of each towel as it was whipped across the floor in attempted damage control. There is a rumor that the words, “I will sell your computers and beds on ebay if I have to buy a new vacuum!” exited the momma bear’s mouth.

The children, exhibiting conciliatory powers worthy of Nobel’s attention, picked shrapnel from their wounds without complaint while simultaneously uttering placating murmurs of apology.

Eventually, the mess was cleaned, the children were bedded, and the momma bear did her level best to disguise any evidence that the sun was indeed going down on her wrath.

The truth about strong-willed children is that the moment a discipline is meted out, the wheels begin turning in their brains, measuring the pain of the punishment against the joy of the misbehavior. If you look closely at their eyes, you can sometimes even catch a glimpse of the machinery at work.

The very next morning as the three were charged with the responsibility of cleaning their rooms, the DK came down the stairs and sadly stated, “They’re doing it again with the water.” Apparently his lack of complicity in the follow-up event activated his tattle-tale function. Apparently his machinery decided greater joy could be gotten from remaining the innocent party. Apparently the momma bear needed to see the destruction first hand in order to gain a little perspective.

Baby wipe containers, filled to overflowing with additional water, flanked the bathroom sink as Spongebob and the pink one engaged in a slap fight with water-filled surgical gloves – each slap disgorging the contents therein. Discipline ensued. Cleaning continued, and the momma bear went down the steps with a thoughtful countenance.

Just when did I start thinking I could do this parenting thing by myself? It is, perhaps, the most important job I have here on earth, and it is the one that I have decided can be trusted to my own fallible reasoning and fickle moods.

They are children. They are creative children. They need discipline and guidance, it is true, but my tendency, when taking the reins, is to react from the biased edge of reasoning. Some part of me occasionally feels the misbehavior as a personal insult, a statement of uncaring, and a judging finger pointing down on all of the ways that I have failed to be the perfect parent. That perceived judgment expands the cracks of insecurity until explosion results in fragmentation.

But I’m not in this alone.

For by him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things were created by him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together. –Colossians 1:16,17

The sooner I remember this, the better my parenting.

As I came down the stairs and related the story to the hubster, a smile played across my lips. How can you not appreciate the creativity that went into their escapades? How can you not tilt the angle of the lens just enough to realize that, hey, at least now the hallway is clean? How can you not remember that God has it all in His very capable hands, and, the act of wresting that control from Him to solo parent exhibits the same kind of defiance played out by those of smaller stature? When that knowledge hits home, how can you not then view your children through different, more compassionate and understanding eyes?

It’s that little glow of love and understanding interspersed with the discipline that makes all the difference in the world. It’s the supporting shoulder of God and the glory in His creation that refits the pieces, erases the seams, and makes that which was broken become whole.

200

2007-09-29T20:02:00.000-04:00

It occurred to me, as I looked at the 199 next to the word ‘posts’, that I should probably write something special for number 200. The only problem with that logic is that I really don’t have anything special in me right now.

I could rant about already having to write an email to one of the instigator’s teachers, or I could tell the tale of the mysterious incident of the water in the hallway (which, by the way, is not in the least mysterious). I could tell a cute story about the littlest of the littles.

Instead, I will repost a poem that I posted before (now set to photography courtesy of the Oddmix) and marvel at the fact that one year of blogging passed me by some time ago, and I didn’t even notice.

fuzzy logic

2007-09-27T19:49:00.000-04:00

There is a cardboard box in my kitchen. It isn’t an empty cereal box or the packaging to ravioli or canned fruit purchased in bulk. It has no kitchen-like function.

On Monday, I received a few relatively small books by way of the U.S. Postal Service. Of course, they arrived in a box five times larger than needed – the extra space consumed by brown packaging paper. Well, I guess that’s better than Styrofoam peanuts.

The box sits on the floor of my small kitchen. It is empty except for two small “bouncy balls” and a piece of junk mail. The lid flaps are rather unwieldy and will not stay flattened because it is a sturdy box.

Tell me, please, why this box remains in my kitchen when I trip over it every single time I walk through the room.

Maybe I should blame it on the Harvest Moon.

know your ingredients

2007-09-26T09:37:00.000-04:00

There is a commercial currently running on the television for a label maker. A group of children sits around a table as a cake is carried in. It is mouth-watering in appearance. A slice is placed before each guest as excited mutterings flow over the scene. Forks are raised to mouths when, suddenly, foul expressions cross the faces of the guests. ‘Spit takes’ abound. Cut to the kitchen and the label maker: labels are applied to two identical containers of white crystalline matter – ‘sugar’ and ‘salt.’

As I bake bread today, I examine the labels on my own ingredients, hopefully working toward recognition of the gratitude within.

The Great Commission, a tenet of many Christian religions, is not one that I have been overwhelmingly good at putting into action. My incredible introversion is certainly a factor in this, but there is more. As one who has been hurt in the past by organized religion, as one who recognizes how the world at large views hypocrisy in the church, as one who respects the beliefs of others (even in disagreement with my own), as one who quite clearly sees the stumbling block of hypocrisy between beliefs and action in her own life, speaking out to others has never come easily to me – even when there is certain knowledge that it would be helpful.

I never seem to be able to get past the fact that I cannot speak out without shining the flashlight on my own weaknesses. Theoretically, I know that we all have weaknesses, but I am always made more acutely aware of how my own personal weaknesses could end up causing harm where I mean to apply balm.

It hurts me, so many times, to see people recoil from the love of God because we, the church, manifest our beliefs in harshness, judgment, and “shalt nots” while the penetrating, aching love of God for His creation goes unfelt by those in the greatest need. I’ve always compared it to Wheel of Fortune. When watching the show, as soon as the puzzle solution occurs to me, I am suddenly unable to see how anyone else could NOT see the answer. It seems so incredibly obvious to me, but, mere moments before, I was just as clueless. Christianity can be like that. When a person suddenly sees, they sometimes forget what it felt like to be blind. That can come across to others as condescension – perhaps because it often is. This is not a true representation of God. He does not look down His nose at us with a smug and superior tone lacing His words. But how do we, how do I - as an imperfect creature – convey the true nature of God’s perfection through this broken vessel?

Paralysis.

I will never be perfect while I am alive.

My heart bleeds for people in pain, but my own weaknesses hold my sympathies in check.

With a grateful heart, in church one Sunday morning, I felt a prompting to start blogging. Through the written word, I am better able to capture my heart-voice without the wall of self-doubt. Less stifled by my inability to speak in confidence of this Great Love through my insecurity, perhaps a clearer picture would come through of that love. Perhaps my tongue could be unloosed.

And my heart has spilled forth through the keyboard. Frail though my words might be, they have flowed more freely here. The introspective mirror can reflect my weaknesses and God’s strengths with greater abandon when I am not bound by the ties of proximity and all of its associated fears.

But, I know how real each person is, even if my only contact with them is through black text on white page. I know the blood that courses through their veins, and the hurts that have piled on their backs to create tender spots which flare when touched by the slightest misfortune in turn of phrase. I know that the power to inflict unintentional hurt on another is not limited to those with whom we have physical contact. And so, after brief stints of posting more regularly and slight increases in readership, I find my insecurities feeding and growing. Fear of failure begets failure as I sabotage myself through silence. The nerves are severed as my fingers are temporarily paralyzed mere centimeters from the keyboard.

Truly, there are many valid excuses for my silences. I never manage to accomplish the things I should do in a day, and allowing myself to spend the time to compose and comment induces great guilt. The guilt joins the mounting pile of recriminating evidence against me, and my confidence wanes even further.

But, but, but, there is a seed of gratitude buried deep. Because, you see, somehow I keep coming back. My words are not gospel. My path is not blameless. My motives are not always selfless. My love is not always pure and unconditional, but I do care. I do love. I do break inside over the suffering of others, and deep down, I am so very grateful for that. I would not want to have a heart of stone.

"Woe to me!" I cried. "I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips, and my eyes have seen the King, the LORD Almighty."

Then one of the seraphs flew to me with a live coal in his hand, which he had taken with tongs from the altar. With it he touched my mouth and said, "See, this has touched your lips; your guilt is taken away and your sin atoned for."

Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, "Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?"

And I said, "Here am I. Send me!"

-Isaiah 6:5-8 TNIV

God, Help me remember my guilt is taken away. Help me be willing. Help me not to cause pain through my flaws. Help me to remember my gratitude. Help me remember that, in order to love others better, I need to grasp hold of the fact that I am lovable in your eyes.

always saying sorry

2007-09-21T10:21:00.000-04:00

So, obviously I have been absent yet again. I can pin it off on being busy, because I have been, but there is more to it than that. On Monday, I wrote the first paragraph of a Sleeping with Bread post after which I promptly fell asleep. On Tuesday I opened it up, started the second paragraph, deleted it then gave up entirely when the husband came home from his meeting. On Wednesday, I had an hour of free time in which I read a few blogs and nodded off in front of the computer yet again. Yesterday we had Back to School night at the instigator’s school – a first for this homeschooling family. It didn’t start off well with both his homeroom and first period teachers being absent. I have to say, though, that I quite liked the rest of his teachers. I think we may have made the right decision. But on to the “more than that.”

I can open a blank document with a mind full of ideas on what to write. I can slip into the comment sections of my favorite blogs, but when faced with a blinking curser, I am suddenly made small. Ironically, this most frequently occurs when my thoughts are at their deepest. It seems that my insecurity level and the depth of my thoughts are directly proportional. Perhaps this is why a friend gifted me with the poem “Please Hear What I’m Not Saying” when I was a teen.

I am feeling deeply. I am reacting strongly to what I read. I am wanting to reach out, yet, like Helen Keller in her pre-sign language days, I am struck mute. This is a regular cycle with me, so I have gotten rather good at apologizing for my disappearances through the years.

Today, I make no promises that I will get better at saying what I am not saying, but I do commit to at least trying to say something through the fog.

And that bread? Maybe it’s meant to be a sourdough…

the art of blogging dangerously

2007-09-12T17:07:00.000-04:00

“It will be a grand scale comedy!” the inner voice pitched as I attempted, in vain, to concentrate on Good Eats. “People will bow at your door in utter amazement of your comedic stylings.”

“But, I’m not funny,” I replied. “Besides, one has to actually have subject matter in order to attempt a Hump Day Hmmm of the lighthearted variety.”

“Let me just set up the scene. C’mon, what harm could it do? There’s this kid, see, and he keeps forgetting to call his mother between school and band practice…”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a comedy to me.”

“Well that’s where the snake, the buffalo, and the band of singing hamsters come into it.”

“Will you just leave me alone?” I muttered as I trundled off to check my e-mail.

Oh look, my long lost friend, Hank, has some performance enhancing tips for me! I’d better put the kids back in bed. One would think it would eventually sink in that I am going to KEEP putting them back in no matter how many times they climb out.

shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, clomp, clomp, clomp (steps, you see)

“Pssst. Pssst. Hey, look here. If you aren’t going for that idea, how about this one: There’s this mom, see, and she’s trying to figure out how to make her kids stay in bed. So she goes out and gets a mule, two geese, and a bucket of spiders…”

“Just go away, won’t you?”

shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, ow (sooner or later I will STOP banging my shoulder on that door frame)

A little blog reading, that’s what I need. I will NOT go to Julie’s site to be reminded of the assignment. I will not, I will not, I will not. Oh look, Julie has a new post….

I might as well just go to bed.

shuffle, shuffle, shuffle

Mmmmm pillows, soft blankets.

“Pssst. Pssst. Hey, listen, it’s obvious you have taste. No mere trifle is going to satisfy you. Just your luck, I’ve come across something that will completely win you over. There’s this woman, see, and she can’t remember whether she locked the front door…”

It’s a sad fact of life that you’re rarely funny when you actually try.

where did I put that gluten?

2007-09-11T01:28:00.000-04:00

I haven’t baked bread in much too long. It’s interesting really that almost all of the bakers seemed to simultaneously go on hiatus without any kind of discussion. I did mean to post a few times, at least to say that maybe bread would make an appearance again once the school year began. Then school actually descended upon me with the force of the stay puft marshmallow man during a stint in a full-body cast.

I am most certainly not a morning person (unless you count the part of the morning that occurs before actually making it to bed). Historically, my writing is much more abundant in the hours after dark and before dawn. That seems to be the only time that I am able to channel the incessant brain chatter into a conscious stream. I am, lately, having to s-t-r-e-t-c-h which is not such an easy task when your elasticity has lost its boing.

Oh the woes of the downtrodden (a.k.a. the desolation)!

Fear is often my greatest weakness. There have been so many times that I have printed off Bible verses pertaining to fear just to carry with me in the still hours of the night. My imagination, in this regard, is not an asset.

My oldest son will soon be seventeen. In some ways, he is so sure of himself – so mature and strong-willed. But, that in itself can bring about the Fear. I fear that he will hurt others unintentionally; that he will grow into an insensitive man, but I also fear that he will be hurt (and he will). I fear that the hurt will come in part because I haven’t prepared him fully enough for the evil of the world. I fear that he will not reach his fullest potential because of mistakes I may have made along the way. I fear that I will blink, and he will be grown and gone – never to be the heartbeat away that he has been for his entire life.

My second son has traveled off into the world of public school. The Fear delights in this development. No longer does the majority of input come from within his safe and loving home. He is not a friend-maker. People like him easily, but he rarely allows anyone access to the workings within. I know from experience the kind of pain that is the fruit of that tree. I also fear my weaknesses have handicapped his ability to reach the highest peaks. Consistency is not my strong suit, and I am quite sure there are times I have fallen down on the job. I know I haven’t done enough to ensure that this still water which runs deep has an outlet for the emotion he so infrequently expresses aloud.

My freckled boy has inherited from his mother a certain enigmatic air. The Fear walks close to him for many hours of every day. Is it nurture as opposed to nature? Am I silly to feel mama-guilt even though much of it is the latter? Will he delve the deeps or overcome? Will he try to accomplish both?

The prince of melodrama calls Fear to my side by the searing intensity of his emotions and the trusting nature that leads him to preach to the masses on whatever he is told by one unreliable friend. It is a subtle Fear – that he will easily be led down a crooked path, or, contrariwise, that hurt will awaken the power of the grudge in him (a power that runs strongly through some of the family lines).

My curly-headed imp embraces the Fear – emulates it. Sudden bursts of joyful energy or pain-induced rage send him streaking through the air like a comet bent on planetary contact. The Fear chases me down as I picture the explosive conclusion. Will he ever be understood? Will emotion send him off on a dangerous journey?

The girl – I see so much of myself in her, and it scares me. Her body-language is already so well attuned to getting what she wants, yet so often, what she wants is most certainly not what she should have. Her eyes delve deep. Fear – it curls around my joints as I pray that she will never pull away from mother or father in righteous (or not so righteous) indignation. I Fear she will always look at what she doesn’t have when compared with others – never seeing the bounty stacked high upon her plate. I learned, but the battle was long and hard. Will she have to fight such battles too?

Personally, there is the fear that all of the swirling emotion that runs in my deepest vessels will spill out – untempered – and overwhelm me.

But Joy of Joys (the consolations)!

My oldest son holds fast to faith. Though he knows his inexperience in many of the ways of the world open him up to a special kind of pain, he declares himself glad for his vulnerability. Though mistakes have been made along the way, he has never doubted my love for him (or God’s). He will not be perfect, but he starts his journey with many strengths.

My second son is being afforded the opportunity to shine. A studier by nature, he now has a broad realm to test his strengths (quietly, internally, perhaps, until he is sure of his steps). He has the strength of will to stand by his convictions and the humor to reach beyond the harder days.

My freckly one is blessed with deep empathy and compassion. Though he may sometimes choose the rockier path, he remains on the path. He seeks (and usually finds) means with which to express the excess emotion. His faithful heart holds fast to known love.

The blue-eyed prince holds tightly to righteousness. Though his path is bound to be filled with drama, he will hold fast – resolved to take his bows after each performance. And although he may take direction grudgingly, he takes it. He cares about doing the right thing.

The curly one has too much fire to be consumed by a mere planet. He shows remarkable agility at avoiding personal harm. And besides, he has a praying mother.

The girl? She will never be shallow. She will love deeply and be loved deeply. She holds fast to her prayers of growing big and strong (and driving a car, and having a big-big-big-big bed, and wanting everyone else to be big and strong, and, and, and…).

Me?

There was a time when I had only three children, but those children were all quite young. In those days, I came very close to losing my sanity on more than one occasion. There was never a downtime. The first was a night-owl, the second a morning person, the third could swing both ways. Sleeplessness (which was not self-imposed) was the rule more than the exception. Even having the audacity to go to the bathroom was a dangerous gamble. Mustard and chocolate syrup finger paintings (with a refrigerator shelf canvas) were some of the least dangerous concerns. Every breath held the anticipation of the next catastrophe. The Fear preyed on my inability to see beyond those early years.

God sends relief in strangely wrapped packages sometimes.

Caleb died. Suddenly, having my every breath consumed with concern over my three sons was not a worry but a joy. If every moment was spent concerned with them, surely, I had proof every second that they were there with me. I could breathe them in and revel in the sweeter taste of love when administered by chocolate fingers. The blessing.

Now, older children grace the house. Though three young ones also reside with us (and they are just as resourceful), I don’t have to take them to the store when all I need is a gallon of milk. I can go to the bathroom and blame someone else for their inattention if craziness ensues. I can laugh a little more easily at the creative efforts. I can actually forget what it felt like to be so starkly on my own.

I can lean firmly on God and know, from experience, that a little raw emotion isn’t going to scare Him away - that He is already encouraging me to spill it out on Him. And about that stretching? My God has very long arms.

web weavers

2007-09-09T01:28:00.000-04:00

All summer, there have been several rather large spider webs attached to the wall just outside of my back door. This prime real estate resulted in enormous quantities of trapped insects and a resultant boom in egg sacks hanging in the uppermost web.

These webs were not very attractive, but I left them where they stood for the entire summer. There was always an instant science lesson for whoever wandered into the back yard. The insect population inside my house (from childhood associated repeat screen door flappage) was less acute than might have been.

People were coming over for Labor Day, and the husband placed the power washer into the N boy’s hands. The webs couldn’t withstand the fervency of his delighted spraying. Suddenly, an entire summer’s stockpile was gone with very little time left before the cooler weather decreases the food supply.

Tuesday morning, I walked outside to find two new webs where the old ones had been. Today, I see that they are beginning to serve their food pantry functions. Though all was lost, life continues onward – and death as well.

I could learn a lot from that spider.

as a matter of fact

2007-09-07T10:56:00.000-04:00

I feel like I need to grow white fur and sprout long ears – my continual inner monologue consisting entirely of varied mutterings concerning my lateness. Some time ago, August 18 to be exact, Mary-LUE graciously benefited me with the Nice Matters Blog Award. Apparently, I matter (I’ll make sure to let everyone in this house know that I now have justifiable cause to insist upon them paying attention to me).

Go ahead, click on the link. Find out what this is about; I’ll wait.

Okay?

Well, since being told that I matter, I have managed very few posts – let alone posts with any merit to them. Be that as it may, I will practice simple gratitude by saying, in my sincerest humble voice, “Why, thank you, Mary.”

Now, on to the business of passing this award along:

Be warned, most of my choices are having as much difficulty posting lately as I am. Though their words may be sporadic, however, they are always worth the wait.

For never failing to touch me with the gentle beauty captured through the lens, for the raw honesty of his family love, for his love of furry friends while embracing the circle of life, and for the way his comments never cease to make me feel special, I proclaim the OddMix to be very nice indeed (he even went so far as to add a wonderful photograph to a poem I posted long ago. With his permission, I will post his version at some future date).

For the love of inanity, the perspective that comes from experience, the efforts to touch the lives of others through her work (not to mention sidewalk chalk and bubbles), I must pass this award along to Mel. The birds and furry critters of her back yard menagerie join me in applauding this great honor.

For touching upon subjects both personal and global, and often controversial, while maintaining an atmosphere of acceptance to viewpoints other than her own; for welcoming new voices to regular “commentversations”, and for always forgiving me when I disappear for inordinate amounts of time, there is simply no choice other than to pass this honor along to Julie.

My last four choices are very different women, but women drawn together with the tight knit cloth of understanding. Each of these women knows what it is like to say goodbye to a child without ever getting a proper hello. For years their presence and compassion in my life has mattered even though I have yet to meet any of them face to face.

For her joy in her hard-won twins and the Norman Rockwell-esque beauty with which she paints the canvas of their daily lives, I simply must compensate one Minnesota Momma that embodies the term ‘nice’.

For the beauty captured in mother/daughter, mother/son, and wife/husband deep and intricate love, jouette takes home top honors. The niceness quotient of her optimistic intensity is beyond compare.

For the genuine compassion that somehow manages to peek through even the most scathingly witty remarks; for holding her friends in her thoughts amidst the craziness of globe-trotting, periodic single-parenting, and repeated close encounters of the MRI kind; for silver linings (presented bilingually to boot), and for the ability to look past my weaknesses (or poke fun at them – but somehow only when she knows I can handle the jest), I crown Heather with many crowns.

And finally, for the indescribable depth of passion (hidden ever so slightly by the scientific demeanor), for the slightly unexpected way her camera’s eye can catch the importance of a scene, for the mama-pride that blushes over the surface-speak about her ‘normal’ children, for the careful choice of words that manages to grasp - entirely, exactly - what my heart is often wrestling, and for holding firm to honesty in a less than honest world, my spidermama friend earns her reward.

I exhort you all; play nice!

two days

2007-08-23T15:59:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, when I look at how my mood is affected by the happenings on any given day, I am confronted with the evidence that “atypical” is quite an apt description of me. Take, for example, two days from last week.

First the commonalities – both days contained mornings filled with activity in preparedness for the Instigator to begin his “real school” career, a summer bridge program for incoming freshman. Both days followed with the necessity of transporting the N boy to his place of work. Both days entailed meal preparation, child caring, bedtime struggles, and plenty of bickering.

The first of the two days was causing me some minor nervous anticipation. It was my quarterly rheumatology appointment. The nerves came from realizing I had to be honest with the doctor, and tell him I had stopped taking my medication. It started off innocently enough. When my mother was in the hospital, and things were going just a bit crazy, I started slacking off on the meds. It wasn’t intentional. But, as I slacked off and felt no difference, I thought I would stop taking them for a bit to see if they were really making any difference. Considering the fact that these are long term meds that can cause some adverse physical effects, I thought it might actually even be a wise course of action.

Eventually, I did notice a difference (after several weeks), but by that time, I was almost due for my blood work, so I decided to hold off on resuming until afterwards. Being the procrastinator and rationalizer that I am, further delay tactics were within easy grasp. With only a week remaining until my doctor’s appointment, wouldn’t it be wiser to consult the physician before resuming the medication to make sure he didn’t want me to ease into it rather than start up with the increased dosage?

I don’t tend to feel very confident and secure around medical professionals. As a result, a myriad of hypothetical conversations floated in my brain – in an attempt to find the best way to avoid being on the receiving end of a disapproving word. Tension.

The second of the two days involved my father. He has been living out of state with my half-sister for some time. He was visiting the area and staying with my sister. He called to see if I was going to be home.

My relationship with my father is a complex one. My parents separated when I was two and divorced when I was three. I always loved my father fiercely, but I am not sure I ever liked him very much. Mine was a childhood filled with broken promises of visitation. Alcohol played a part in many of the let downs. Still, after I confronted him at age eighteen and informed him that we could get along fine as long as he stopped trying to be my father and tell me what to do – since I felt he had lost that privilege by never being there for me when I really needed a father (so much for long life from honoring my father and mother), we have actually had a pretty peaceful relationship. I still love him fiercely. We get each other on a deep level.

I told him I would be home in the afternoon.

The rheumatology day arrived. I managed to keep my voice – setting my downfalls on the table the moment he entered the room. Though my blood work results were normal, my ankle was swollen, my Achilles tendon was thickened, my right knee, left hip, fingers, and lower back all showed moderate fluid retention. I even found the courage to tell the doctor I had noticed other symptoms a few weeks after halting the medication – symptoms that wouldn’t appear to have anything to do with my ankle (a risky venture since disclosure of this sort always chances the condescending look from many medical professionals). Everything about me evidenced the need for a continuation of long-term medication.

My father’s visit came. I had begun to think that he wasn’t coming as the clock ticked by, but he had merely gotten lost coming to my house. The majority of the visit took place on the front porch where, due to my father’s short term memory losses, we had the same conversation six or seven times for the first forty-five minutes. He let me know he was in the preparatory stages of moving back to the area and plans to take more of a role in his grandchildren’s lives.

One would think, from the evidence, that the better of the two days would have been the second.

One would be wrong to make such an assumption.

For years I have had issues with my knee, my back, and my hips. I have sporadically seen doctors for these issues. Due to the nature of the medical field, the ailments were never acting up by the time I saw the doctors, but the answers were always little nothings – bursitis, runner’s knee (a.k.a. patellofemoral stress syndrome), a degenerating disk in my lumbar spine. For years I have had other little issues – things I rarely even mention to doctors because I can’t remember a time when they weren’t issues in my life, so I have always chalked them up to being normal. But, a part of me has always felt that the “acting up” of these different joints and different systems were somehow related. Unfortunately, as they were never acting up when anyone saw me, they diagnosed the other issues present and treated me to the condescending looks.

My rheumatologist is different. He was almost giddy with excitement. Here was very clear evidence that his narrowing of the disorder was on exactly the right track. The five possibilities he has been considering fit perfectly with this newfound evidence. These things ARE all related, and it isn’t just in my head! To be fair, those other “minor” conditions also exist. We are really no closer to determining which of the five diseases effects me personally. My treatment will not change. But I know, and so does he, that none of this is in my head.

My house was a wreck when my father visited. It usually is. Of course, in the past few weeks, this has been even truer than usual (due, in part, to construction and increased time commitments). I was tired and a bit worn down.

My father evidenced to me that his ability to put his finger right on the spots of deepest insecurity – turn and gouge, turn and gouge – is still alive and well. I knew this. His unerring talent for taking a few little words and turning them into character judgment (all while making it seem that you are the only one with a problem and never him) hasn’t struck such a resounding chord on me since my younger years. Two little sentences, twelve little words, and suddenly I am without self-esteem. Logic plays no part in this little drama. It is all raw nerves and childish longing.

Two days, one following the other, they are just simple boxes on my calendar page. And yet, two simple days have such power to make me understand how precious the gift remains – God’s gift of seeing me, not as the world sees, but for who I truly am….and loving me anyway.

refrigerator humor

2007-08-08T15:14:00.000-04:00

Upon the plastic baggy which encases the instigator's left-over french fries are written the following words:

S's: Touch this and you will be mauled by 3,000 poodles, 3 spotless giraffes, and a farting leopard!

Need I say more?

ode to a working computer

2007-08-08T12:02:00.000-04:00

Ah, sweet peace doth grace my heart
As fingers touching keys transmit
Their binary tendrils of understanding
Onto the screen
So recently blank and white!

Such dread fear did dare to fill my veins
As screen following screen fell ill
In grandest domino-tian homage -
Upstairs and down -
A single technician to share.

Oh horror unimaginable upon my back
As insult and injury combined
In vicious scheme of foulest battle drawn -
No ping was heard.
The interweaving net had fallen down.

But, joy! Sweet joy reigns now within me deep
As pressing publish will result in post
Drawn nobly from within the delayed stress -
So hard to bear -
Of several days without the blogosphere!

too much is not enough

2007-08-02T01:03:00.000-04:00

Every week, I find myself composing posts in my head in response to Julie’s Hump Day Hmms.

Only twice have I actually managed to write them – three times if you count today (for which the prompt is Too Much of a Good Thing). I do realize that in order for this to still be considered the day of the hump, I would have to lie about my time zone, but I am a lot closer to timely than I have perhaps ever been before.

Ah, the world of blogging. It is, indeed, a marvelous world – full of quirks, unexpected beauties, free humor, and even a seedy underbelly (which is simultaneously more and less despairing than its corporeal sister). I remember stumbling into the world – not through fur coats in a wardrobe, but in hungry anticipation of a few friends’ words.

I? Do everything by obsession. Reading my friends’ blogs was never enough. It wasn’t long before I was clicking on everyone in their “favorites” lists. Pretty soon after that I was reading every archive in every blog on those lists. Ever the people-watcher, I found myself following links from links until I eventually lost track of the starting point. Finally I started to write.

And then came Mary (and a simple comment to me – my very first from someone to whom I was not already in some way connected).

Not only did she fuel my desire to read more and dig deeper, but she began to coax me out of my shell, and I actually started commenting on blogs from time to time. There was never enough time in the day to express all of the feelings of love and compassion I had for so many people who didn’t even know I existed.*

You know, when you have children, for some strange reason they expect you to pay attention to them once in awhile?

When I read books, I sometimes go on a marathon of reading. I read while I cook, while I bathe children, while I teach school, while I converse with little ones. I sleep a lot less than I need to sleep for days on end. And then? Just as suddenly as it began, it ceases. I read the same sentence over and over but absorb nothing. That’s when I pick up the puzzle books.

Did you know that it is possible to do kakuro for 12 hours straight without getting a migraine? Or maybe this month it is spider solitaire (or freecell, or a rotating list of favorite versions of solitaire from the program boasting its 144 different options).

They stop. They return. They end again - ebb and flow with the cycles of the moon.

When I first fell in love with Jesus, it was with the roller-coaster thrill of emotional response. The passion waxed and waned - my commitment level piggy-backing on the tide of feelings.

For me, at first, there is always too much of a good thing. Sometimes those initial bursts of overmuch peter into nothingness. Other times the waves continue to beat a regular rhythm, rushing in to fill any void.

The happiest endings? Occasionally, as with my relationship with God, there is a stabilizing that comes with the maturing of a bond. There are still oscillations, but the extremes are less profound. There is still passion, but it is of a gentler, deeper sort that permeates the secret reaches – that comes from knowing and being known.

*I did eventually come to a relatively happy ending with the blogging. I got selective on how much I read and how much I check up on. I still never have the time to comment or write that I wish I had. One of these obsessions, maybe I will learn to type.

short talk

2007-08-01T00:57:00.000-04:00

A few quick quotes for the week (short a few since I am down two kids for the week):

The Pink One (during prayers): And God, help us get big and strong, and get a gun (after her oldest brothers came home with Nerf guns).

Spongebob(age 6): When I get older I am going to build a rocket and go to sleep while it flies to Jupiter. And I'll see Benjamin (cat who died over a year ago). Pause. That's where all of the dead cats live.

The Instigator (age 14): Me like meat.

The N boy (16): I had to do something with myself; playing computer games gives me a headache when I'm sick (after basket weaving a coaster and a placemat from the disposable tape measures they have at IKEA).

The Dad: I'm out of Iced Tea.

The Mom: I wish one of us had possessed a neatness gene to pass on to at least some of our kids.

Bonus:
A silly song the girl likes at bedtime:
Pink likes chocolate milk, chocolate milk, chocolate milk
Pink likes chocolate milk, yes she does.

This then has to be repeated for every member of the family.

In order to save time last night, I tried to get out of it by singing, "Everybody likes chocolate milk..." but as I was leaving the room, Spongebob called after me:

"Mom, you forgot about the part that says 'Everybody likes chocolate milk except for the lactose intolerant people. But if they try to drink it anyway, they die'."

helium filled

2007-07-30T00:35:00.000-04:00

When I write, I have a great amount of trouble editing myself. In fact, I don’t work on drafts and polish anything. I don’t plan what I am going to say. I usually have an inkling, but it is normally just a case of going wherever my fingers take me. This process can lead to interesting thoughts when something is on the mind, but in times like these, the general level of stressful and hour-gobbling activity leaves me sitting in my chair - mouth agape, stream of drool dribbling down the edge of my chin – with barely the energy to even read other blogs (let alone comment on them or write anything for mine).

It’s a funny thing, blogging. The longer it has been since you have done it, the easier it is to ignore the fact that you want to do it.

While sanding walls (and painting, etc.), it occurred to me that need is a mystical beast. In the era of first love, the sheer headiness of being needed by someone else can float us several inches off the ground through every waking moment. Entering the serious relationships that come with maturity, the warm-belly tingles of being needed serve as affirmation.

Why is there always a flip side to every coin?

I remember reading years ago (though I don’t remember where) that very often, the very thing which attracts us most to a mate is often also the source of our greatest consternation. I believe I have expounded on the dual-sided leadership/stubbornness gene in the past.

But need.

The joy of holding a newborn baby who is so utterly dependent on my care? The thrill of acceptance that comes from feeling a toddler's arms wrapped around me in the need of mommy protection? The bedazzling wonder that is a teenager seeking counsel (or simply a loving ear)?

Bliss.

The unfed masses? The whining beasts? The able-bodied residents somehow incapable of caring for their basest of needs alone? The single-minded who can walk right past said able-bodied in order to find the drywall-dust encrusted mother for the all-important juice replenishing ceremony?

Not exactly bliss.

Hold that thought, I have more laundry to do….

Dear God, help me hold the Bliss before the mind’s eye.

the tale of the dog that licked you

2007-07-12T01:55:00.000-04:00

I have been remiss. In my all too frequent absence from this blog of late, I neglected to mention that we got a new dog. We were not intending to do this quite as quickly as it happened, but the eldest’s boss, upon hearing of our loss, asked if we would be interested in taking one of their dogs (personality conflict between dogs forcing them to get rid of her). So, we began the sudden adjustment that comes from severe downsizing, and made room on our laps for Daisy the Dachshund.

Daisy thinks she is a big dog. She is very loving and wonderful with the children and parents, but she is extremely protective. A ringing doorbell or knock at the door will immediately set her off on a frenzied rush of barks and growls as she runs back and forth from door to resident, “Intruder alert! Intruder alert!”

The husband has enjoyed this trait since discovering that doorbell rings on the television produce the same result (or telephone rings, elevator dings, game show buzzers…). He is now able to combine his two favorite pastimes – playing with the DVR remote, and teasing mercilessly (all in good fun, of course).

We have construction going on in an upstairs room of our house right now. Normally, we would be handling this by ourselves, but we threw caution to the wind, and actually hired someone to do the drywall this time around. The constant opening and closing of the front door combined with the speed of a certain weiner dog led to the necessity of leashing Daisy during certain times of the day. At one such time, S, the instigator, sick of holding onto the leash, attached it instead to the piano chair. Now, I call this the piano chair, but in reality, it is your standard wheeled office chair which just happens to reside at the table upon which the keyboard rests.

I was on the phone with my mother. It was turning into a relatively long conversation since, after several days of laryngitis, I finally had most of my voice back (and I haven’t been over to see her in an entire week), so I did not immediately notice the leash situation. When I did, I set off to locate the responsible party. Before I could make my way to the other room, happenstance interfered.

It is a dark secret of our “little” family that the TV is a member of the household. Often, even when no one is actually watching the thing, it is left in operation. After all, we wouldn’t want it to get lonely or bored. Apparently, the television would very much like to be the dear husband when it grows up, for it chose that moment to peal out with the ring of a doorbell.

Dachshunds are not very big dogs.

Suddenly, the piano chair went flying through the living room, hot on the trail of a barking tornado – through the obstacle course of a living room recently abandoned by young children at play, on to the dining room.

We live in a 100 year old house. I don’t know if you have spent much time in old houses, but it is a somewhat common anomaly for such houses to have floors which are less than level. In short, our dining room works well for science classes studying the effects of gravity.

The chair started catching up with the dog.

Being a person of gentle heart, I should feel guilty that I didn’t help the poor thing sooner, but I must admit that I was simply laughing too darn hard. My greatest regret? I didn’t have a video camera handy, so I won’t get to use that wonderful phrase, “No animals were harmed in the making of this film.”

humming to the beat of a different fiddler

2007-07-06T03:06:00.000-04:00

What better day to jump back into the world of chronicling thoughts than today? What better method than to act as though weeks hadn’t passed with nary a whisper of fingers to key? That time has fleeted by, and it is long past the hour when I should be asleep, but thoughts tickle at my mind. I want to sleep (though not tired), and I know I should sleep, but soon is soon enough for such things.

There is this little thing called a Hump Day Hmm perpetuated by Julie at The Raven Picture Maven. Now, I realize that today is not Wednesday, and therefore not the day of humpliness. I also have just enough rationality left to admit that my particular hmm stems not from this week’s hump, but from that mid-week hill that we passed way back on the 20th of June.

There is something about the phrase “accident of birth” that just speaks to me. I found myself looking up the word accident on Dictionary.com. I have trouble with the word “accident” in some uses, because it has such negative connotations. But I found two definitions which spoke to me in this regard.

3. any event that happens unexpectedly, without a deliberate plan or cause.

5. a fortuitous circumstance, quality, or characteristic: an accident of birth.

Ah, such a wondrous stroke of good fortune that the phrase “accident of birth” is actually associated with the definition I find most appealing for this topic.

Years ago, my mother and I almost died through a little thing called childbirth. Placenta previa was far less frequently diagnosed in the era before routine ultrasound. Blizzards in rural areas and hemorrhaging pregnant women (some thirty miles from the nearest hospital) would not easily add up to a living child and mother – the same mother who, years earlier, almost wasn’t born.

Years and years ago, a woman with an almost total hysterectomy gave birth. All that remained of her reproductive tract was one ovary and a small bit of uterine wall (in the doctor’s eyes, just enough to keep early menopause from triggering). That baby would grow up to become my mother-in-law.

Accidents? Coincidences? Miracles?

My first year of marriage was not a happy one – at all. However, we did find ourselves expecting a baby after about five months. Was this an accident? We weren’t “not trying.” I am not a proponent of having a child to fix marital issues. Generally, that is a very bad idea. For us, though - for me specifically, the first look from those newborn eyes left me drastically changed. My soul center shifted, erasing hurts and guilt – re-erecting the core of my faith as the core of my life.

My second child came. Purpose deepened; love grew. The third child brought, at first, a relaxed familiarity along with the joy. Soon, however, I found myself overwhelmed with three small children who got into every conceivable mischief in the amount of time it took to blink.

Depression loomed. Marital bliss suffered in its wake. Accident came again (not oopsie daisy accident, but “without deliberate plan”). There was fear involved in the joy of two pink lines (or blue, or purple. I’ve lost track over the years) - fear stemming from deep within - terror on some levels (am I adequate?), anxiety on others (will this make the tensions more or less acute?).

My fourth child was born, but born without cries or breath or open eyes. And, in the permanent weld of white-hot torment shared, the birth of a child into Jesus’ arms made petty irritations lose all value.

Unfairness? Accident? Miracle?

A fifth child came along - very much planned, yet so much an accident. Had his brother survived, the timing would have been different. The same combinations of momma and daddy might never have come to be. The family might have been deemed complete. The fifth child brought the fourth set of living cries to my external senses – a gift both powerful and frightening.

Child six, my fifth to keep, followed several early miscarriages. Is his genetic make-up accidental as well? He brought with him hope that life could come again from this body.

Child seven! Child seven? I never planned on having a large family. Is that accident as well? Is it accident that led that sperm to that egg and created a female baby? It certainly packed shock value!

A fortuitous circumstance led to such happy accident (serendipity, I love thee well)!

But today, today (well, yesterday in physical fact, even if I haven’t been to bed yet), TODAY! My best friend had a living, breathing, beautiful baby girl. Today, while her mummy tried to fitfully sleep in the post C-section haze, I got to hold in my arms such joyous evidence that there is most certainly a Great Designer. I got to look into newborn eyes and feel the unadulterated peace of lulling fussy whimpers into innocent sleep.

quickly speaking

2007-06-25T01:34:00.000-04:00

I am so sorry I left things on this note and haven't had a chance to get back here. My mom is ok. She did get back to a regular room after 48 hours in ICU. Then, she spent a few more days in the hospital before heading out for a week of rehab. She is home now (since Friday), but still receiving IV antibiotics (administered by the sis and me).

Other things have been very crazy, and I honestly haven't had more than a few minutes here and there to get on the computer (during which I, invariably, fell asleep reading all of your lovely blogs - which is most certainly NOT a statement as to their entertainment value, but to my level of exhaustion).

I hope to be able to write something of more substance soon.

fresh bread in the morning

2007-06-12T00:29:00.000-04:00

The bread I sleep with tonight is savory. It is a recipe passed down straight from Abraham’s hands. It should be noted, however, that the relaying might be somewhat terse due to exhaustion.

The last week could probably best be described as a roller coaster ride of consolation and desolation, but yesterday and today are perhaps some of the clearest examples of the apex and nadir.

I got a call yesterday morning just before leaving for church that my mother had developed a UTI and was being transferred to ICU for observation. It was a calm call, but I decided to leave church early and head over to the hospital. I ended up not doing that because my sister was closer, so she went before me, but had to leave for a few hours around 1:30. I arrived then and she left. Shortly after she left, my mother developed a severe case of the shivers (due to reduction of fever) and suffered a rather intense “anxiety attack” with very distressing physical manifestations. I was summarily kicked out of the room to worry in the waiting room as they paged various doctors.

Unfortunately, no one came to tell me that I could go back in, so some of that worry was unnecessary. Finally, I went back to the room only to be stopped by the nurse and told to be very quiet in the room as they did not want my mother to be stimulated.

Of course, after I entered, my mother asked for me to remove her blanket and give her ice chips. My wish to provide for her needs caused me to be reprimanded by yet another nurse for “disturbing” my mom. I sat quietly only to have her ask me for something else. I finally told my mother that I was going to go out of the room because they really wanted her to sleep. At this point, I felt pretty low. I was angry at the nurses for making me feel like I was causing my mother distress (whereas she was actually already distressed about things, but they weren’t there to help her), but I also agreed that my presence in the room WAS causing her to remain stimulated. I didn’t know what to do.

Still shaken from witnessing my mother’s episode, but afraid that my presence could actually end up causing a heart attack, I went out to the parking lot to try to decide what to do. After talking it over with my husband, I decided to go take care of some details at my mother’s house then return home as my sister would be arriving at the hospital within an hour or so of my departure. But, I didn’t leave right away. I closed the car windows, started the car, turned on the A/C, and proceeded to lie across the front seats and release wrenching sobs into the upholstery. I felt guilt that every time an episode happened with my mother, it seemed to be after I had left when my sister was not coming to take my place (the first episode, which I may tell about at some other time, occurring in the 43 minutes it took me to take care of my mother’s banking because she was actually sound asleep). I shouldered the weight of a self-wrought jinx, convinced that my mother might die, and that this was somehow related to whether I stayed at the hospital or left. And yet, I was drawn to the certainty that I had to leave. As I pulled out of the parking space, I did so with the knowledge that, should something happen to my mother, I would always feel like it was somehow my fault – no matter the illogic.

Abraham actually took hold of the knife to slay his beloved son before God called out to him to stop.

When my sister arrived at the hospital some time later, she presented our concerns to the nurse in regards to staying or leaving. She asked for advice. The nurse, after clearly stating that she hated advising families about what they should do, said that if it were her family, she would stay. She said that my mother was septic and her blood pressure was very low, and the ensuing twenty-four hours would be touch and go.

My sister took the first shift. I took over at midnight and stayed through morning. At that point, her blood pressure had been stable for almost 12 hours (though still lower than normal). My mother was coherent and alert (yes, even for most of the night, sleeping only fitfully). She encouraged me to go home during the change of shifts (the only slices of time where visiting patients is not allowed in the ICU – 3 hours in the morning, an hour and a half at night), and even said I should take a little time before coming back.

My sister ended up coming back for the next shift, and I arrived this afternoon to find my mother, looking the best she has looked since the surgery, full with the news that she had finally been allowed clear liquids. While I was there, she had her first solid food. She was most definitely feeling herself again.

Gen 22:13a Abraham looked up and there in a thicket he saw a ram caught by its horns. He went over and took the ram and sacrificed it as a burnt offering instead of his son.

If Abraham had not been prepared to sacrifice his son, would a caught ram have borne such significant value?

If I had not gone through the moments of deepest desolation, would a simple plate of hospital food have ever been capable of producing such joy in my heart?

Sometimes the greatest consolation comes from knowing that the deepest depths can be braved if God is at your side – and knowing that more fully because you don’t have to brave them at all.

At this time, my mother is still in ICU, but things look very promising, and we hope to see her back in a regular room by tomorrow.

the devil is in the details

2007-06-10T20:53:00.000-04:00

I won't be blogging any details right now due to time issues, but my mom has had several "events" over the past several days. She is in intensive care for a raging infection and blood pressure control issues. I would really appreciate any and all prayers.

the unexpected

2007-06-08T00:37:00.000-04:00

As a person who uses worry to help deal with stress (by preparing for every possible negative outcome don'tcha know), it never ceases to amaze me that, no matter how much I prepare, the actual outcome is never exactly like any expected scenario.

The surgery is over. My mother did well. She now begins the journey of recovery peppered by a different (and with hope, temporary) kind of pain.

But today, as I was on my way home from one of my hospital visits, our dog, Twister, passed away during an epileptic seizure. He has suffered them since around 18 months of age (he was four).

He will be missed.

absentee bloggeting

2007-06-06T10:10:00.001-04:00

So, where have I been? I actually managed to write about 3/4 of a Sleeping with Bread post yesterday, but never got it finished or published. I tried to read all of the blogs I have become accustomed to enjoying, but I fell asleep at the computer.

My mother's surgery is tomorrow, so I likely won't get the chance to post then. I will take the laptop to the hospital on the chance that I am able to write some during the long wait, but since I can't access their WIFI, I won't likely be able to read or post.

I'm sorry I have been so scarce around here (and around the comment sections of everyone else's blogs). Hopefully things will get less hectic soon (HA!).

Until then, I'll post one of my favorite poems I have ever written (which I may have posted before, but I am too tired to check). After all, what's better for the soul than a heap of self-glorification (please note the dripping sarcasm)?

Interwoven

Two trees stand together -
branches woven
like the intermingling fingers
on two ancient hands.
Side by side
for years uncounted,
gnarled now from storms,
children’s play,
the harshness of time.

They watch
as life hurries by;
the peace of a
darker than blue sky
enfolds them.
The fullness of the moon
casts the only
light
they need.

Together
they have seen
houses rise and fall,
roads appear,
crack,
fall to ruins...

Together
they sleep
until spring’s sweet song
awakens them
to the warmth
of each other’s
touch.

Copyright 1997 TLE

the retrospective – a.k.a. how to put a positive spin on procrastination

2007-05-30T01:51:00.000-04:00

I’ve been running abysmally late on everything for the past year, so it should come as no surprise to me (or anyone else for that matter) that I am just getting around to writing The Great Mother’s Day Post. Mother’s Day has never been a big ordeal for me as a mom. Usually it is spent honoring my own mother and my mother-in-law. This year, my mother-in-law’s back surgery and my mother’s work schedule provided an opportunity for the entire first half of the day to be spent with just my husband and children (and a few hundred other church goers for a few hours - if anyone is keeping track of statistics). Should you be one of the aforementioned statisticians, take note. You must subtract one of my children from your log books as he couldn’t be bothered to get dressed in time to leave the house (or even come down the stairs).

After church, the children decided to take me out to lunch (on their father’s dime, of course) to the only local non-fast-food restaurant with no waiting time, where we feasted to our hearts’ content on mediocre fare. After the meal, I was sent off to the seclusion of the automobile while the brood descended (with force) upon the nearby discount store. My eyes were duly averted until the homeward journey was accomplished whereupon I was gifted with multiple blessings.

Things started out on a traditional path. The abandoned sixteen year old had ridden his razor a mile and a half to the grocery store where he purchased a single rose (somewhat wilted from the return journey through un-seasonal heat). The girlchild proudly handed over a flower of a different sort.

I have often marveled at the offbeat style my children possess. They are not normal by any stretch of the imagination (though enough ordinariness adorns them in day to day life to present a somewhat convincing portrayal of sanity).

Spongebob puffed up his six year old chest with great pride and anticipation as he handed me the gift he had chosen.

The freckled one grinned as he surrendered his personal selection, chosen with great care and the whole of his eleven year old heart.

My little leprechaun practically leapt from his eight year old skin as he produced his offering.

The sly, almost hidden grin of The Instigator – age 14 – caught my periphery briefly before his token was revealed.

And alas, the pink one had yet another gracious honorarium.

It is, therefore, with great pride that I present to you
The Face of a Mother:

Of particular interest to me are the words upon the pink one’s final gift - not clearly visible in these blurry excuses for photography: "Catapults babies up to 15 feet! Note: Real babies should never be catapulted or thrown."

four

2007-05-23T00:34:00.000-04:00

fade to pink

wasn’t it yesterday
that I enveloped you -
my blood-pulsing breath
enfolding you in a cocoon
of protection?

my soul holds you, still,
tenaciously,
but I can no longer contain you

you break free
in hair flung
butterfly ballet abandonment.

wasn’t it yesterday
that I marveled
as a second x chromosome
made you silence
the ranks
with your femininity?

you set up your throne
and proceeded to charm
your royal subjects
into willful servitude.

wasn’t it yesterday
that you teetered uncertainly
on upright legs
with Columbus-like spirit?

discovery voyages
launched you forward
into the era of
independence.

wasn’t it yesterday
that you were
merely
my baby girl?

-tle 2007

Happy birthday forever-baby. I love you.

teething biscuits

2007-05-22T02:47:00.000-04:00

sleeping with bread

Many moons ago, I became a parent for the first time. I was graced with the chance of staying home to parent. This almost didn’t come to pass, and it didn’t promote financial abundance, but it did happen. After a few short months, the N boy developed wanderlust. Considering the fact that his world was the size of the blanket I placed him upon before this transition, his initial explorations were not of great distance. He swam across the parquet flooring with fervent determination and almost equally intense effort.

In those years, I was known to peruse the occasional parenting tome, so I adhered to the philosophy that it was simple to reform a mischief-seeking child. The books all agreed: If a child is getting into things they should not be touching, merely distract them with something they are permitted to explore. Nothing to it! This advice worked well until the boy discovered the bottom shelf of the wall unit. On the left, the shelf held various books. To the right, the album collection could be found (for you youngsters, think great big CD’s that had to be played upon an enormous contraption called a turntable). At first, this bounty was relatively safe. The boy merely ran his fingers across the spines of the books. Before long, however, he could often be found sitting on the floor with rifled books and de-jacketed records strewn about him. My entire library soon bore bite marks.

No distraction ever seemed powerful enough to sway his purpose once he set out for the shelf. When he began to rejoice in the sound of ripping paper, I realized my tactics had to change. The parenting experts were ready for just such a happening. Saying, “No,” repeatedly was, according to the pundits, the surest way to break the fragile spirit of my child. As a result, I embarked upon the grievous task of reorganizing my storage system – placing only child friendly items on the bottom shelf. As he grew, so did his determination. No shelf was too high. “No!” served only to make him look guilty if he was caught in the act. It was never sufficient to keep him out of trouble in the first place. My books were exiled. His toys took over every accessible surface. I had to wonder if it wouldn’t have been easier and more effective to introduce him sooner to the concept of the definite NO.

In the Garden of Eden, God set up a play place for Adam and Eve. Everything was an acceptable toy – except for one tree. I notice from the scriptures that He placed that tree in the center of the garden. There were many distractions for his children around the periphery. Years of productive play could be possible without thought of that tree even intruding upon their merry-making. I also notice that He told them, “No,” right off the bat. They seemed content.

One day, that crafty serpent brought Eve’s attention to the tree. Like the N boy running his fingers over the pages of the book, gradually growing his anticipation by the sound of rustling paper, the serpent’s words awoke Eve’s curiosity. I can imagine if I were in her place - the subtle hiss of the serpent’s voice provoking such insatiable curiosity, the curiosity gnawing at my thoughts until I could no longer think of anything else - the first tentative steps to briefly touch the fruit, then smell it, then caress it. With each successive investigation, the temptation to experience the forbidden treat would mount until becoming irresistible.

Temptation comes in many forms. Often, I am tempted to dwell upon the familiar. God made the world so vast and so full of variety. There is always some new direction to grow, some new blessing to see, but somehow, I keep reaching for the old standard. Refusing to stretch into the next stage of what God has in store for me, I rest comfortably in the mundane.

Eventually, the N boy grew even more. He stopped chewing on my books and started reading them. Adam and Eve, while expelled from the garden, attempted to raise their children with knowledge of the awesomeness of God.

As a child of God, I too must grow. My growth cannot be purely internal. I need to open up my spirit to a willingness to be taken out of my comfort zone. Am I up for the challenge? I’m not so sure, but He is strong enough to lift me should I stumble. He is patient enough to remain by my side no matter how small my steps.

Did you know? (edited)

2007-05-18T00:40:00.000-04:00

If you add one atypical brat to one mother of a brat and attempt to get that mother a quick chest x-ray in preparation for back surgery, time suddenly loses all meaning?

After spending a slight portion of the afternoon on the phone with a very close friend and bringing her up to date on the past week’s activities (and the ones upcoming for the next few), she said, “I pray for you…gosh, I don’t even know what to pray for you.”

I responded, “A sense of humor.” I figure it’s the only way I am going to survive the next few weeks. In that vein, maybe some of the more humorous aspects of the day will tumble out of my fingers in this greatly abbreviated account. I have my doubts.

The plan:
-Drop the N boy off at work in AM
-Pick my mother up
-Quickly take her to get the x-ray
-Take her back home (allowing extra time in consideration of my traveling companion, I still thought I could be home in time to possibly feed the other children lunch, and squeeze in a respectable amount of schooling).

The reality:
-I called my mother to remind her of the time I would be picking her up in order to give her adequate primp-age opportunity.
-I called my mother again to let her know that I would be arriving in approximately 15 minutes.
-I called my mother again to let her know that I had, indeed, arrived.
-My mother informed me that she would be another 5 or 10 minutes.
-Knowing my mother, I began cleaning out all of the rubble that accrues in my vehicle during rec sporting seasons instead of coming inside to wait (which would have made her get ready more slowly because of conversation possibilities).
-My mother emerges from her home approximately 39 minutes after my arrival.
-She motions for me to come lend assistance as she has too much to carry.
-My mother’s neighbor comes outside and they discuss other neighbors and health issues for approximately 15 minutes (during which time I am loading her things into the car, then continuing to clean).
-We finally get into the car several minutes after I had projected entry to the radiology center would occur.
-We drive to the radiology center.
-I begin to park.
-I pull back out of the space as she has located another spot she feels is closer to the entrance (it isn’t).
-I suddenly change direction before pulling into that space when a spot which truly is closer becomes available.
-We enter the building.
-We detour to the bathrooms.
-We sign in at radiology.
-We begin the (short) wait.
-I allow myself to inventory the items she brought into my car and suffer the beginning symptoms of dread.
-When she is called back for the x-ray, I quickly exit the building and call home to inform the S boy that he will need to make a (late) lunch for his siblings.
-I re-enter.
-My mother comes out from the back.
-She sits back down.
-She explains the reasons she should have gotten a copy instead of having it sent to the doctor directly.
-After five minutes, she tells me, “Oh, I’m done, by the way.”
-We head back to the car.
-She requests a stop at the mall across the street to return one item.
-As we pull toward the store for return, she spots a restaurant at which she meant to pick up a gift certificate.
-She requests another stop there after the return.
-The return takes much longer than expected as the attractive male employee is having great difficulty with the computers while trying to assist the drop-dead-gorgeous young woman returning an item.
-After this errand is complete, I drop my mother at the door to the restaurant and attempt to find a parking space closer than ¼ mile from the door.
-I finally succeed.
-I enter, but cannot find my mother anywhere.
-I walk back out and attempt to call her cell phone.
-Her cell phone is not turned on, so I am directed immediately to her voice mail.
-I re-enter and eventually find her sitting down at a booth (she has ordered something to eat).
-She suggests we sit down and enjoy a meal together, which I decline on basis of time constraint
-When her food comes up (to go), I leave to get the car so that she will not have to walk that far.
-I swing around to pick her up, but she is nowhere to be found.
-I drive around in circles for 6 more minutes.
-She finally emerges.
-She requests that we stop to take care of her dry cleaning.
-We do.
-She asks if I can drop her off at that mall after tomorrow’s doctor’s appointment (3 hours after).
-I say we will talk about it.
-I drop her off at home.
-I arrive at home a mere 4 hours later than expected.

During this trip, I did learn a few things:
-A myriad of details about several groups of friends and their extended families.
-Personal details about the finances, last will and testament, and mother-daughter relations of one close friend to my mother.
-Various names and affiliations of people who I may or may not have to contact about possible happenings in a month or so.
-The fact that I really need to grow a backbone.

P.S. I do love my mother very much, by the way.

edited to add: As I fell asleep, I felt a little guilty about this post for one main reason: not knowing my mother, the humorous aspects of this post might not come across, and it would sound more like a complaining rant - which it is not. Some basic things to keep in mind: My mother and I are very similar in some ways, and in others very different. On shopping, I am an "in and out" type of shopper while she likes to stop and look at everything. I don't think there is anything wrong with either of those tempers. Combining the two, however, can lead to a lot of interesting comedy. My mother is also the high queen of tangents (I did come by it honestly). Often, she embarks on tangents without warning and launches into discussions about people and things I do not know, so it is a little hard to follow. As she has aged, the abrupt changes have become more pronounced. Add pain medication to the equation, and, well....more comedy. Also, she is ALWAYS running late (a trait I never realized I shared until I had children), but to such an extent that we often give her a meeting time of a half hour before the actual event. All of these are characteristics that my sister, my mother, and I regularly joke about together. End edit.

turning over a new loaf

2007-05-15T01:04:00.000-04:00

bread from heaven

I don’t always remember to thank God for answered prayer. This is something I discovered about myself long ago. This weekend, I learned those times are even more numerous than I had realized for one simple reason. I wasn’t including the times that my gratitude is unvoiced because my eyes are not wide enough to see that the prayer has been answered at all.

On particularly frustrating days, it is often possible to hear me muttering something along the lines of the following: “Sometimes I wish I could work outside of the home for a mere week or two – just long enough to miss my children terribly.” So firmly convinced was I that a granting of this request would refocus my attention to the more positive aspects of constant home-parenting my brood that often the thought alone would bring about a more positive attitude.

The past few weeks have been much more packed with activity than is normal for me. Much of that activity required time and energy dedicated to my mother, my mother-in-law, my extended family, and me. It has, therefore, caused me to be away from my house and my children on an incredibly consistent basis. It wasn’t until after the funeral on Friday that the fact struck me. My prayer had been answered.

I was driving my mother toward home, preparing to take her on a few more errands before picking up my kids and heading off to the hospital. I was suddenly overcome with longing for their physical presence. I desperately missed being present for all of the daily activities. I had a grand idea. I would pick the children up before running the errands. I didn’t need to be without them. Time was of the essence anyway since I had just learned that my husband would be home an hour earlier than usual, and he needed the van. I thought perhaps picking them up first would shave valuable minutes from my journey.

Those of you with children will undoubtedly see the flaw in my plans. Taking a carload of children along on errands is not exactly a time saving device. But alas, loneliness often smudges the clear vision of reason. Within thirty seconds of their installation into various passenger seats, the bickering commenced. As I glanced at the clock, irritation mounted. There was no way I could accomplish everything I set out to do in the allotted time. Something would have to fall through the cracks. Considering their behavior, the hospital visit was the logical sacrificial lamb. The pressure remained even after this conclusion was reached. I am not one who breathes deeply the perfume of relief after a decision has been made. I am far too likely to second guess myself. Even so I had to laugh at the speed with which the gentle breezes in my memory turned into the hurricane gales of reality.

And as I sit in the eye of the storm I call nighttime, it occurs to me: the very irritation that arises in me during the activity – be it with my children or away from them – is the very evidence that the problem isn’t my need for a break from them. The irritation stems from taking everything for granted. For, if I weren’t taking my family for granted, if I weren’t taking my ability to do for others for granted, if I weren’t taking the money that pays for the gas, food, and lodging for granted, surely my heart would be consumed with thankfulness for those things. My eyes would see that the irritations may come, but they also go. My mind would understand that even the irritation of the greatest magnitude will create fodder for the fondest of memories. My spirit would rejoice in the comedy of errors.

Sometimes the answer to prayer is yes; sometimes it is no. Other times, the voice of God requests me to patiently wait. But once in awhile, if I were really paying attention, I bet I could hear the Lord saying, “Just wait until you see what I have in store for you! You’ll never forget this ride!”

changing of the guard

2007-05-10T12:04:00.000-04:00

This week has been one of emotional heaviness for my family. My younger sister had a miscarriage. My uncle died. My mother in law had back surgery yesterday. My own mother is in the preparative stages of her own back surgery. All of the expected emotions are dancing a chaotic rhythm as the band seamlessly shifts from one tempo to the next – my footsteps struggling to keep time to the ever changing beat. But, as I step to the side of the dance floor and take up my preferred wallflower position, there is something deeper revealing itself to me.

Suddenly, the death and age related illnesses are affecting a different generation, the one occupied by my parents. There is a subtle shift of power taking place as they prepare for the eternal leg of the journey, we step into the matriarchal and patriarchal roles, and our children begin entering the age of power. I don’t like this feeling. It is not the ephemeral nature of life which strikes such a sad chord in me.

It seems we spend an inordinate amount of time in our youth striving for the age when we will be grown – to have the power over our own destinies. That power is short lived. Life comes full circle, and with age, we slowly lose those things for which we fought so hard. For some, the journey is graphically symbolized as the ability to drive, care for their homes, tend to their physical needs, and make decisions for their own future is slowly whittled away by degenerative disease. For others, the loss is sudden, unexpected, and profound.

In observing the world around me, I often note that faith seems strongest in young children and senior citizens. Perhaps it is easier to surrender control to an almighty being when the evidence is already so clear that we really never had the power at all. I do not mean that we have no say in this life of ours. There is just so much, always, that we cannot put reins around. Perhaps acknowledging that fact is easier when it is so clearly written in our lives.

We all know this life is fleeting. My prayer would be that I am able to recognize those times in my own life when change is coming and not sit with gritted teeth, grasping hard to reins now uselessly attached to a horseless cart.

On this day, as I leave my house to visit a hospital for one mother, gather in mourning and remembrance of a loved one gone, and take another mother to another preparatory appointment, may I mingle the caring and love of my children into a smaller frame of time. May I hold onto the present with them while preparing for the future. May I keep my eyes always on an even more distant future when all of the parts are again united - when eternity becomes now for us all.

touch and go

2007-05-08T02:15:00.000-04:00

Lately, when I talk, I have data retrieval issues. I will get about ¾ of the way through what I am trying to say, and I suddenly can’t seem to access the word I am seeking. When I type that, it sounds like the phenomenon commonly referred to as a “brain fart.” These are different though. The word could be as simple as “what,” and the intense panic associated with losing the ability to grasp the word – which is hanging out just back and to the left of where my brain fingers can reach – seems to cause the problem to echo. I then suffer through five to ten minutes of frustration as word after word escape my desperate neural office assistant.

Perhaps part of the reason I am not blogging and commenting so much right now is that I am afraid the same downfall will affect the typing portion of my brain. Of course, it is far more likely to be related to having a lot happening and, subsequently, less time to chronicle it (and the fact that most of it deals with boring details about different people’s medical issues and accompanying appointments).

Another issue might be that I finally started working on a massive responsive blog post to Pam that I have been thinking about for some time. It is almost as if I have declined myself permission to write about anything else until I finish that. This is completely self-imposed guilt, but it is effective nonetheless.

So here I am, whining and complaining about all of the reasons why I am not being a faithful blogger, thereby attempting to chase away my loyal audience (subconsciously of course) by my dismal attitude. So utterly kind of me, wouldn’t you say?

So anyway, on to some synthetic bread substitute - obviously, some of the desolation would be listed above. There are quite a few piddly, little desolations right now, but they are just that – windshield bug splatters on the great highway of middle(aged) America(n life).

The consolations? They, too, would be numerous. Some are, perhaps, as inconsequential (in an ounce for ounce comparative analysis) as the desolations, but they are beautiful nonetheless.

My God (not piddly): Psalm 91

My family:

Quotes of the week:

The husband: “Do I have any clean socks?”

The N boy (16): “You know, if you hold the unlock button down on your key ring, the windows open automatically.” (nice of him to discover in five minutes when I have had the thing for a year)

The S boy(14): “I paralyze you in your tracks with armpit stench! Attack, stink!” (imagine evil magician meets monster truck rally announcer voice)

The M boy (almost 12): “I don’t want to wash my pants. I am trying to save the ghost of Elvis ketchup stain for eternity.”

The J boy (8): “ I have elf ears. My elf ears are sunburnt since I never put them in my hat. My friends at church all call me oompa loompa because I am so small.” (all of this said in quite the cheery fashion)

The T boy (6): “I bet I am going to marry R when I get older and she isn’t my sister anymore.” (I seem to have lost my status as the one who will marry the boy)

The pink one (almost…gasp….4): “My friend R (imaginary friend with the same name as her) got hit by car. I take her doctor, but she dead. It’s okay, I put her in my pocket.”

still awake?

2007-05-02T02:00:00.000-04:00

Yeah, yeah, I know I should be in bed. I am quite aware that I will regret my after midnight mania in the morning hours (especially since tomorrow is chock full of dental appointments, prescription filling, piano lessons...oh, and that school thing I am trying not to think about). But alas, I am wide awake. I will shortly bop myself in the head with a cast iron frying pan or attempt reading the most boring book I can find (by flashlight so as not to wake the hub). First, though, I might as well post something to this blog.

Tomorrow, after dragging my listless self from the bed, I will wander off to the basement to rewash (for the fourth consecutive day) a load of reekified laundry. I will attempt to call (for the third time) the pediatrician's office to schedule appointments for the spawn (but NOT between the hours of 11:30 and 1 when the phone lines are off for lunch - though, ironically these seem to be the only hours I am capable of calling). I will somehow try to pick up a prescription in the morning or after doing school but before leaving for the activities listed above.

I am writing all of this down on the blog because my lovely children steal post-it notes when I try to leave myself reminders that way.

I wonder, will I someday be going through a pile of discarded belongings after they have all gone off to their adult lives only to find several years' worth of post-its underneath a loose floor board?

Well, we'll probably be broke by then, so if I do, I'm sure they'll work well as wallpaper.....

burnt ends

2007-04-30T16:01:00.000-04:00

sleeping with bread

I have recently gotten far too much practice in the art of being drained of life. I don’t even have to do much to accomplish it. My arms often feel too heavy to lift. Even shuffling my feet along on the trek from kitchen to dining room feels like hours of jumping hurdles. Even though I am getting much better sleep than is usual for me, I never seem to feel well rested. Even thinking of what to make for dinner takes more mental concentration than I can muster.

Perhaps the aspect of this exhaustive draining that causes me the most strife is that I have a very difficult time allowing the blessings I have been given to flow out on those around me. The very quality of exhaustion makes me more prone to snapping at my children and accomplishing nothing around the house. This in turn leads to guilt. The guilt feeds in to an overwhelming inability to accomplish.

I know I have written about this before. It does seem to be a continuous cycle. I don’t know, maybe I just like to have something to complain about. But complaining does nothing to ward off the problem. In fact, all it seems to do is use up what little energy I have.

But, just like God provided manna in the wilderness, He provides small blessings for me on a day to day basis – little nourishing tidbits that serve to carry me through the rough spots.

Just when I think I can’t possibly keep my eyes open for another minute, a new trickle of energy carries me through the task at hand. Just when I am positive that my healthy emotions are petrified under a crusty layer of kool-aid mix, yogurt, and Elmer’s school glue, the warm sun and gentle breeze caress the skin of my cheek like the lips of a mother on the face of her newborn child.

Just when I think I can’t take another minute of the squabbling nature of sibling relations, I am privileged to witness the companionship side of the equation. My three youngest sit in a sandbox with the toddler next door and help her venture forth into a new era of discovery. All this, and no one got sand in their eye.

God is good – all the time.

All the time, God is good.

excuses

2007-04-29T23:33:00.000-04:00

I want to stomp
and complain
and let the three year old me
run rampant over the keyboard.

I want to type
and tell stories
and leave comments
and make phone calls.

I want to be a great mommy
and play games all day
with the people
who won’t be little much longer.

I want to clean my house
completely
and organize it
so everything has
an away.

Or better yet
get someone else to do it for me
while I am unconscious
so that I won’t
feel guilty
for all of the things
I have let slide.

But,
I
am
so
tired –
to the bone
in the marrow
replicating
spreading
through the bloodstream
to every pore
every hair
every breath.

a little bit of this…

2007-04-25T01:35:00.000-04:00

I have been remiss in my general posting and bread baking duties. Once again, I prove ever so vividly my utter undependability (If you don’t believe me on this one, just ask my friend who emailed me over a month ago, and I have yet to send out a response even though I think about it every single day).

So, although I am not even going to attempt bread this week, I am going to try to catch up in many other small ways. First, Pam over at the MarillaAnne blog has posted the answers to two more of my interview questions. One of these postings is pretty recent, so I have an excuse for not updating about that one. The other…not so much. I also owe her a comment on one of her answers (that threatened to turn into doctoral thesis length – my comment, not her post). Have I typed even one word of it? No.

Emailing, commenting, blogging, all have fallen by the wayside in the past few days/weeks/months/years. But, if I sit here any longer ruminating upon all of this, I will merely type a post completely concerning my regrets without taking any steps to remedy them. So, the steps may be small, but I am tentatively venturing forth in the faith that any progress is better than none at all.

My good friend Spidermama has tagged me for the real moms meme. The objective is to make the statement, “Real moms ______.” The blank can comprise one word or a million. Posting a picture with the assertion is also an option. I’ll have to check around to see if I have any in my files because I STILL haven’t figured out how to work my Christmas camera. I guess that isn’t surprising since I haven’t exactly tried to do so.

Anyway, without further ado:

I sat at baseball this evening with the pink one. The blue eyed J-bird was carousing with his teammates as they awaited the arrival of enough additional players to begin the game. A seven year old boy wearing the uniform of our team slowly approached the field.

“Look mom! A beautiful chocolate boy!” the pink one exclaimed. “And there his two pretty chocolate mommies and his chocolate sister!” No, the child didn’t have two mothers, merely one mother and a teenaged sister who, I would assume, rather resembled an adult to the eyes of a three year old child. And, no, none of them were made of chocolate.

Here’s where the real mom part comes in.

Real moms don’t correct their daughters for making errors in political correctness just for the sake of political correctness. Real moms understand that a discussion on the finer points of accepted terminology would take no root in the mind of most preschoolers. Real moms find pride in the fact that their daughter, who has been exposed to people of many different ethnicities for her entire life (including in her own family), who up to this point has never given the slightest sign that she notices the differences in the color of people’s skin, chose to pull from her thoughts a connection to her most favorite thing in life – chocolate!

Real moms hope that no one would ever be offended by the innocent words of their baby, but would instead see the love in that child’s eyes.

I am betting this meme has already made the rounds of many; nevertheless, I tag Mary, Mel, and Pam

silly walk

2007-04-20T00:12:00.001-04:00

Your Brain's Pattern

Your mind is a creative hotbed of artistic talent.

You're always making pictures in your mind, especially when you're bored.

You are easily inspired to think colorful, interesting thoughts.

And although it may be hard to express these thoughts, it won't always be.

What Pattern Is Your Brain?

weighted in the balance...and found wanting

2007-04-19T01:32:00.000-04:00

My husband made a pronouncement the other day. He is commonly doing that. Sometimes, he is sure that what he is saying is right; all is black and white; there are no shades of gray. Sometimes he uses the same certainty when he is aware that what he speaks holds controversial attributes, but he is ripe for a little discussion – especially with people of opposing views. I am not a pronouncer. I am an expounder. I take pronouncements and find their strengths and flaws. I consider them silently, or speak passionately, or write in the stillness of nighttime.

He said, “The law is made under the assumption that the majority of the people in a society wish that society to be a lawful one. When that is not the case, the law is powerless.”

There are many different avenues of this statement that I could explore, but, because of the roundtable discussion put into action by Julie this week, it immediately brought to my mind a clear delineation between justice and forgiveness while simultaneously magnifying their similarities and mutual dependence.

Now that I have you scratching your heads and muttering, “What the heck is that supposed to mean?” I will proceed to fly off on multiple tangents and likely not get to any clear explanation of my statement.

Justice is a fire that burns within the hearts of men when wrongs have been committed. Justice is a legal system set up to direct the course of those who wish to do right, and to bring consequences down on those who choose to act outside of its bounds. To many of us, justice represents what is fair and right. We rally around the flag of righteousness when the value of human life and dignity is laid waste.

God gave the law to Moses. He also gave instructions to set up cities of refuge.
"Then The Lord said to Joshua: "Tell the Israelites to designate the cities of refuge, as I instructed you through Moses, so that anyone who kills a person accidentally and unintentionally may flee there and find protection from the avenger of blood." -Deuteronomy 4:41-43

This very statement makes clear to me that our passion for justice is intrinsic to the fabric of our being – it is, perhaps, thread from the fabric of God in whose image we are made. It also tells me that our sense of justice is fallible.

In the same way, our legal system is fallible. Either in an effort to set up a system that prevents the just from being punished unfairly, a system is created which also allows for the unjust to avoid penalty; or a stricter system is erected which carries greater risk of convicted innocence but decreased instances of guilty freedom. In addition, when punishment is meted out, it cannot appease the loss completely. It cannot give back what was taken away.

Forgiveness does not excuse wrongdoing. It does not necessarily erase the punishments. It is not a get out of jail free card. Forgiveness and justice are not mutually exclusive. Instead, one serves to complete the other.

When victims’ families choose to observe the final moments of a death sentence carried to completion, it is not uncommon to hear them express relief that it is finally over, while paradoxically expressing some surprise that the relief was not as great a balm as they had hoped. When families sit in a court room and gasp in astonishment at the lenience of a sentence, or weep with dismay at a finding of not guilty due, not to innocence, but to a technicality of method, justice holds no healing powers.

In these times, forgiveness is a tool that is an even greater gift to the giver than the recipient. It is the saw that cuts the chains binding their hearts to the grief over the unfairness of it all. And perhaps, on some occasions, it is a gift to the receiver – the inexplicable gift that causes him to start on the journey of changing his ways.

I have heard it said that we judge others by their actions but wish them to judge us by our intentions. It is much easier to cry our for justice when we are the injured party. But, in the many small ways that we injure others – with careless thoughts, words, looks, or graver offenses – we pray justice not rain down on our heads.

Forgiving others is essential behavior if we are treating others the way we wish to be treated – following the golden rule. Forgiving others is easier when we can understand the why’s and wherefore’s. Forgiving others seems almost impossible when dealing with horrendous evils, yet we need to learn to hate the deed while forgiving the doer lest we begin the journey into harboring hatred. Harbored hatred always grows, and it will spill out eventually – often on those who are closest to our hearts.

I think forgiveness and justice are equally weighed – not like the contents of a balanced scale - in separate baskets, but more akin to the component parts of a suspension bridge. Without proper balance, collapse is imminent.

more thoughts on this topic can be found at Julie's rountable.

no preservatives

2007-04-18T01:10:00.000-04:00

sleeping with bread

I have never liked sandwiches. As a child, my mother would pack me a lunch with a single piece of white bread and a slice of the only lunch meat I would eat at the time (Lebanon bologna). I would proceed to take them apart and eat them separately – the meat first, and a few bites of the dry bread. Even now, I often have my peculiarities in that realm. I also tend to take other things apart that perhaps should remain together.

Yesterday, when I read the news about the events at VA Tech, I was saddened – I am sure we all were, but one thing that made me the saddest of all was my initial reaction. I felt….nothing. My mind recognized it as a terrible tragedy, but I didn’t feel tragic. My thoughts went out to those who were suffering, but my heart didn’t flutter. I wasn’t surprised. I wanted to be, but I wasn’t. In fact, until I came across a list of the victims on MSN and read a short profile of Liviu Librescu, it didn’t hit home. He was a 76 year old instructor who was born in Romania, survived the holocaust, and emigrated to Israel before finally settling in The US. He died while blocking the door to his classroom, thus enabling many of his students to escape through windows before the shooter gunned him down. He survived so much only to be murdered in a place of higher education – a place where children are sent to arm them with knowledge and abilities designed to protect them from hopelessness and destitution.

The world has become a very small place. We are now able to hear and see news from around the globe while it is actually taking place. The hurts and ails of the globe are our daily diet. In years before communication lines were so swift, each community banded together in their griefs and joys. It was not necessary to seek a personal element because those suffering were a part of every day life in the community. Now, I may know what happens in another country, but I don’t know why six police cars and an ambulance are visiting a house two blocks away. I have become desensitized to much of the horror because, to some extent, it is no more real to me than the latest box office smash.

As my husband and I drove toward a concert hall this evening, I found myself watching the rush hour commuters at a corner bus stop. They probably ride the same bus with the same people on almost a daily basis, and yet, in the three minutes we sat at the traffic light, not once did any of them make eye contact with each other. We have likely all done the same on elevators, in grocery lines, in public restrooms.

I am glad to live in an era in which technology has brought the ends of the earth closer together, but I grieve that we do it at the loss of care for our neighbor next door. I grieve that the regular onslaught of the world’s tribulations makes me, personally, build a thicker shell of protection around my emotions.

Consolation is difficult to find when the nation has been shaken by any kind of tragedy, but there is some still. We, in much the same way as the village of old, stand together in our grief. Our minds turn together in prayer or positive thoughts for those afflicted. We each count our own blessings a lot more accurately for a moment in time. The political and spiritual divides continue to exist, but for the moment, the united grief takes precedence over the disagreement.

And on a more personal note, an Israeli professor who gave up his life that others might live helps me, for an instant, to take my eyes off of the hardened crust of apathetic depression which creates a barrier between the desolations and consolations of my own soul.

tick tock

2007-04-17T09:42:00.000-04:00

Just so no one thinks I am ignoring them....

The past few days have been pretty hectic around here. I was hoping to get something posted today, but it is shaping up to be a bit on the crazy side.

With any luck, I will get a bread post - or SOME kind of post written while I am schooling the kids. I tried that yesterday but my laptop kept locking up (and when I tried getting on the desktop briefly, all of my students vacated the table and hid). Ah, life.

syllables

2007-04-13T00:45:00.000-04:00

Well, I threatened it in a comment on Pam's blog, and so it comes to pass. I am jumping on the Haiku bandwagon – I love Haiku.

There is a weekly prompt at One Deep Breath each week for Haiku. This week’s theme is bridges. You get two for the price of one (which is FREE, so don’t complain).

sudden sun drenched glade
fading into gentle dark
spanned by shadow’s bridge

-----------

the chasm between
broken heart and forgiveness
bridged by laden cross

me....again?

2007-04-11T16:12:00.000-04:00

Yes, I am at it again with the interviews. We all know it is all about me anyway, so suck it up! I know you want to pull out your Scrapbooks on the Atypical One in anxious anticipation of what will spill forth this time, so get to it, and let’s get started.

Julie of the Ravin’ Picture Maven extended her interviewing skills to any takers, and, well, her posts are always so open and thought provoking that I could not possibly resist the temptation. How silly of me to forget that I would actually have to re-assemble my brain in order to answer those questions with anything even mildly coherent. The results follow. I was certainly long-winded, but I’m not so sure about the coherent part.

In other news, Pam over at the MarillaAnne Blog answered question #4 from my interview questions to her. I recommend following all of the links. The trip may not be short, but it is worth the ride.

1. What hung on your walls as a teen, and why?

Goodness, this takes me back. In my first year of teen-dom, my sister and I shared a room. I believe there were pull out posters of Leif Garrett, Shaun Cassidy, Parker Stevenson and Scott Baio on the wall then – oh and I forgot Jimmy NcNichol. I guess I just really dated myself with that answer. In my defense, she was the older sister, so I can blame it on her.

That year, my grandparents died and we moved into their house. As a result, I had my own room for the first time. It was a pretty small room, but it was mine. I am relatively sure that the only things I had hanging on my wall at the time were a few poems and a poster of Styx from the Cornerstone album – remember albums? I think this was when I really started figuring out that many song lyrics were just poems set to music. I always had a preference for free verse, and musically speaking, I preferred lyrics which told a story and didn’t sound like forced rhyme (as a result, most of my favorite Styx songs were some of the lesser known ones). I also entered the age of liking folk around this time, so I may have had one or two Harry Chapin poems. He put out a book of song lyrics and poems entitled Looking…Seeing (very strange artwork in that book). I don’t think I had anything particularly decorative on my walls.

2. How do you make a decision? What factors weigh more for you? Do you rely more on logic, or emotion?

You really do want long answers, don’t you? This is akin to Mary’s justice/forgiveness question to you. I suppose it would be best to start off with a disclaimer. I really do not make decisions well. The flip side of my ability to often see both sides of any given situation is the inability to stop creating lists of pros and cons for each side. This is often true even for the simple things (like deciding to go out to eat. My husband and I are like the vultures from Disney’s animated Jungle Book. At all other times, he is pretty decisive).

I am an extraordinarily logical person, although my logic might sometimes be a shade on the atypical side. My brain is quite capable of taking in all of the important qualifying information, separating it into categories, and judging the potential risks and benefits associated. I rarely have any doubts about the logical side of my decision making skills, and yet…. If I make a decision based on logic alone, I never fail to feel a vague sense of everything being unsettled. I am sure to worry about every possible thing that could, and probably will go wrong.

I almost never rely on that logic when making a final decision. My emotions – guided by indefinable perceptions of the implications of decisions on those around me – demand to have their final say. I am an emotionally driven person in almost every area of my life. I simply MUST feel what I am doing, or I am unlikely to do it at all. Unfortunately, fear is a feeling, and there are times in which I make decisions by not deciding anything at all. In those instances, and in instances where I allow the logic to supersede the emotions (because I KNOW it is the right thing to do), I tend to allow the guilt voice to speak to me in the still moments for years to come. I guess this could qualify as regret – even when the results are shown to be confirmation of the original decision.

See that? I couldn’t even make a decision about how to answer this question. I was going to support it with examples and the like, but, well, then I would have to decide which ones to use. It really is amazing that any coherent posts ever come out of my brain!

3. Is your life what you thought it would be when you were 12? Either way, how do you feel about that?

Oh my goodness. Well, I must tell you, goals have never been my strong suit. I was always much more connected to the interpretation of atmosphere and the observation of things that were in the present. I have a vague recollection of thinking, while I was still young, that I would be at home with my mother forever, and taking care of her. She was a single parent to my sister and me from a very young age. I did have aspirations to become a singer when I was young, but I never had the talent to support that desire.

Now, by thirteen, I had started having much wider vision into the futurescape. Depression began to take a bigger role in my life. I am relatively certain that the goal of “starving writer” had entered my psyche by this point in time; however, part of me also assumed I was going to die relatively young. I am not at all sure that impression has changed, but my definition of “young age” has changed a lot over the years.

I did manage a few years of writing, but not professionally. I entered into an era of almost starving, but the writing dried up with the finances – possibly due to the fact that motherhood had entered the picture by then. On motherhood, I have been asked many times if I always wanted a lot of kids, and I have always answered honestly. I don’t think I ever gave it much thought. If pressed, I probably would have assumed I would have two children, most likely girls. This is because my mother and her only brother had each had two kids. My dad actually had four, but I grew up without him having much day-to-day influence on my life. I qualify it that way because his lack of presence had a lot of influence on my life, but not of the day to day variety.

As a teen, I once had someone say of me, “Whoever marries you will never be bored!” That was not necessarily a compliment. The fact is, I guess I always assumed that great passion would be a large part of whatever filled my future. In that regard, I would say my life is not the way I would have envisioned it at 12 (and I am also pleased to say that I have, indeed, become quite boring). Geez, four paragraphs have been written on this, and I haven’t even started on the second half of the question!

My emotions on the subject are like a bubbling cauldron of great contentment and vague regret. The ingredients are loathe to intermingle due to their chemical make-up, so each time I sample the steaming brew, I come away with a different taste in my mouth.

I would not trade my children for anything in the world. I appreciate my husband for his many good points (and tolerate the not so good – in part because he also tolerates mine). I have a decent life filled with the ever present joys and irritations so integral to human relations. BUT. I wonder sometimes how to reach deeper within and touch the passionate spark of essential me-ness in order to let it run free, even amid the triviality of dirty laundry and midnight cries. I ponder who I will be when the nest is someday empty, and I have very little idea.

4. If you overhear a stranger who needs help or information you could provide, are you likely or unlikely to jump in? Why or why not? Give an example.

I am an introvert. It therefore comes as a surprise to me that there are actually times that I will jump into a conversation with helpful information. If I am standing in line at the grocery store, and the cashier and patron in front of me are having a discussion about something, and neither of them knows the answer to a particular thing (“Do you know who sells kerosene?” for example), I am likely to supply the information if I am aware of it. Likewise, if I am in a group of parents at a rec sporting event and someone needs information about the way the program is run, where to find some athletic supply, or how to get to a certain field, I will pop in with the information. I must say that I tend to wait until I am sure no one else is able to supply the information first. Oh, and I always feel guilty when I do jump in. I hate to feel intrusive.

I think the reason that I am more prone to jumping in with information in these settings is that everyone is on a somewhat equal and unsure footing. If I have even the mildest tinge of doubt in my information, or if I feel that someone else there has even slightly more experience than me on the topic at hand, I am more likely to remain silent. Occasionally, I have been known to direct people to a good source of information on the topic. Now, if I am directly asked the information, it is a different story. I do not ignore direct requests.

5. What is something you wish you could do, but can't?

There are so many potential answers to this question. I wish that I could play a musical instrument. I wish that I could find my passion and be a better teacher to my children. I wish that I could master routine and exhibit a solid model of organization, cleanliness, and competence to my progeny. I wish that I could work up the courage to stand up for my own needs without feeling guilty (or becoming selfish). I wish that I could feel the same kind of rush that is obtained from a first kiss/first love/first personal accomplishment of deep merit without losing any of the stability and coziness of the familiar. I wish for many things. But, none of these truly fit the category because I could do all of those things if I simply learned to muster up a little determination. Therefore, I will simply say that I wish I could sketch artistically when all I can truthfully manage are unconvincing stick figures (they look more like noodles than sticks in my hands). Heck, I can’t even manage a straight line on my own.

Thank you, Julie, for what turned out to be some very tough questions. Thank you everyone else for wading through my literary equivalent of peacock strutting. May you each have a wonderful day. Now, where did I put those tissues?

quick bread – no rise time required

2007-04-10T00:31:00.000-04:00

Early this morning, I actually typed a topic for today’s bread into MS Word. I had a lot of disjointed thoughts about where I was trying to go with it, but it will just have to wait until next week, due in part to the following reasons:

The desolations:
1. Not feeling so well today. I’m not quite sick, but very foggy brained (yes, h, more so than usual) with sore throat and EXTREME exhaustion.

2. Had to take my mom for the second in a series of three nerve block epidurals today.

3. Spent a portion of the day on the phone scheduling appointments (not my favorite activity).

4. Got something irritating in the mail.

5. The N boy seems to have pink eye (doc tomorrow)

6. A few of the other kids are coming down with the cold-like illness as gifted from their father and older brother.

7. I still have a sink full of dirty dishes – most of which have been there since last night.

8. I still have several hampers full of dirty clothes that I have needed to address for at least 5 days.

9. I have been to the grocery store five times in the past week, and I have not remembered even one of those times to pick up a particular item that has been on the list since before the first visit.

10. My bread looks more like lumpy drop biscuits.

The consolations:

1. My two oldest children are getting a kick out of dragging me around the house at bedtime in order to say goodnight to all of the little people. I do mean dragging in the literal sense, too.

2. Although my mother’s blood pressure did spike from nerves, she did much better this time around than last.

3. I got to spend a good bit of time talking to my closest friend on the phone last night. Lately, that has been a rare treat,

4. The irritating mail is just that – irritating. It isn’t a matter of pending financial struggle, nor is it heralding bad news. When the irritation passes, I will likely forget about it completely.

5. The pink eye is likely a side effect of antibiotics, so I can fool myself into believing it is therefore less contagious until told otherwise by a medical professional (and if any of you out there ARE medical professionals who would love to disillusion me, Shhhhhhhh, let me keep up my charade long enough for a good night’s sleep).

6. There’s a chance the kids coming down with this will be docile and easy to handle in the sickness induced exhaustive state.

7. Some of those dirty dishes come from the lovely, homemade turkey noodle soup I am currently enjoying.

8. Everyone (other than me) still seems to have something to wear tomorrow.

9. In those trips to the store, I have remembered to pick up a few other things that I forgot to even put on the list, but I somehow managed to keep from adding a lot of other things we don’t need even though I went to the store hungry on at least two of those occasions. And I could actually afford to go to the store to get those things in the first place.

10. Some people find lumpy drop biscuits to be quite tasty.

May God give me the strength to always look at what I do have and help me learn to spend a lot less time thinking about the things I don’t have. May I never forget those days of a $20 two week grocery budget for 3 ½ people, a cat, and a dog – no matter how many years pass. May God take this overwhelming exhaustion and turn it into a respite from insomnia. And may He bless you each beyond measure as you go about your days.

role playing (a.k.a. i get to ask the questions)

2007-04-07T12:02:00.000-04:00

So, in the normal manner of things for me, I granted an interview with the wonderful Pam, and my words seized up like a 1976 Ford Maverick engine with no oil. My aspirations toward deep and meaningful questions flew away on the wings of the starlings leaving me to stumble forth with my feeble attempt at intelligent discourse. Who knows, maybe the Monkeys Typing Shakespeare Syndrome will make an appearance.

So here you go, Pam. Let me know when you have the answers up on your site.

1. Biblically speaking, who are your favorite historical figures from both the Old and New Testaments and why?

2. What emotions are evoked in you by sunrises and sunsets? Are they vastly different experiences to your internal and external senses?

3. What are some methods you use to keep a little bit of Texas with you wherever you go?

4. Can you give one example of a time in your life where joy welled up so much inside of you that it had to spray out, sprinkler like, on anyone who happened to pass by?

5. On a more lighthearted note, what is your favorite traffic sign and why?

Have at it (and if you need to wait until the illness-induced brain fog abates – or, you know, for the whole Easter thing - I will certainly understand).

no one likes the pink ones

2007-04-07T00:10:00.000-04:00

I had to take the N boy to the doctor today. The child went and ruptured his ear drum (at least all evidence points to that, but too much ooze was present in the ear canal for complete confirmation). He was in that stage of slight betterness today that leads to greater whining and complaining. The youngest three, in my opinion, either got too little sleep or are in the day-before-getting-sick stage of greater whining and complaining (and tantrum throwing ad nauseum). As a result, the brief and unexpected trip with N boy to the doctor’s office today was almost as refreshing as a long weekend away in the mountains.

I asked the boy whether he felt well enough to go with me to the grocery store to get his prescription immediately following the appointment. Had he responded in the negative, I would have gladly taken him home before trekking out alone. He didn't, so we dropped off the prescription, and I began the very slow acquisition of a few small items. Having become accustomed to picking up a few prescriptions on a monthly basis, I have the timing aspect of this venture down to a science. The boy followed along like my hugging velcro monkey twin for the first half of the adventure then slowly oozed into a seat near the prescription counter when exhaustion got the better of him. Being a somewhat resourceful momma (who tends to procrastinate), I figured this was the perfect time to gather up a few Easter goodies for the little people. Purchases made, I hurried the packages out to the car and returned just as my number came up on the big Your Drugs are Ready Board of Doom.

This is all a very long prelude to simply ask one question. Whatever happened to plain old regular jelly beans? I know for a fact that I found them last year, though they WERE surrounded by sister beans of every possible gimmick. But alas, this year, there were specialty jelly bean-like creations of the ‘kissables’, lifesaver, bubble gum, and skittles varieties, but not even an empty space to suggest the one time presence of the more generic sugary goo. Have we become a society of so many specialties that we have lost the basic form?

…which reminds me of my mother. She has at least four doctors all dealing with different aspects of the same medical condition. When she has a question about something, it takes her ages to figure out which one she is supposed to call for that specific thing. It makes me worry that something will fall through the cracks (like the time she had pneumonia and her GP sent her to a specialty ER that is divided into departments. Because some of her symptoms were presenting like those she had with a heart attack, they sent her to the coronary care unit. No one ever checked her lungs. They sent her home, and we were back the next day because she was much worse).

And to think, I was merely trying to write about jelly beans. If you need any jelly beans in late April, I am sure we will be able to spare you a candy dish full of stale pink ones – if I can ever find the darn things, that is.

another round of pink

2007-04-05T00:21:00.000-04:00

me: C'mon kids! Get your shoes, socks, and jackets on. We have to leave for piano in TWO MINUTES!!!

pink: Here my shoesocks.

as we are attempting to put them on

pink: T wear shoesock?

me: Yes.

pink: And J, and M, and S?

me: Yes.

pink: How bout dad?

me: I assume he wore socks to work today.

pink: And underwear?

I guess you had to be there.

thinly sliced...

2007-04-02T22:40:00.000-04:00

...bread
There is, often, in the heat of battle, a rush of adrenaline which will keep a soldier on his feet long past when the nourishing effects of his last meal and his last hour in bed trickle away. For the past week, I have fought the battle of motherhood – soldiering forth to tend my ailing flock. As the battle draws toward a close, I find my energy reserves depleted far beyond the drain of the day’s activities.

It seems ironic that I would feel the most alive over the past week in those times when I had the least sleep, the least rest, and the greatest demand on my time. But that is exactly the way of things. In caring for sick children, I always seem able to find one more ounce of readiness to reach out to them in their misery.

But lo, the time comes when they begin to feel better. How quickly my mood changes! The compounded (and unheeded) exhaustion erupts in irritation. Why is it that a simple request for a drink can act as a catalyst to so many different emotions? If my eleven year old asks me for a drink when he is at his worst, I go above and beyond the call of duty (often with an air of compassion and subservience). Add 36 hours to the equation. He is now feeling much more human, and has put forth the energy to engage in several enjoyable activities. Should he then ask me to get him a drink (especially if I was just about to sit down for the first time in awhile), suddenly I am struck with just how much I am taken for granted.

I am drained! I am tired! I am selfish and would like for things to be about ME for five minutes because they have been about everyone else for an entire week. I grab hold of my righteous indignation and wave it about like a banner inside my thoughts. I play the martyr and get the beverage anyway, making sure to drop clues all along the path that indicate just how much I am being put out.

Yes, I have felt the most drained of life, over the past week, immediately following the adrenaline crash. But tell me, does that give me the right to take it out on those around me as if it were somehow their burden to bear? Instead of embracing passive-aggression, wouldn’t it be so much better if I learned to lean on the Lord in precisely those times?

I’ve heard it said that the true measure of a person’s character is the way they act when they are tired. When that realization hits home, I am humbled. But I need to learn to realize and be humbled before allowing myself the gripe time. Then I will truly be alive.

the insomniac tells all

2007-04-01T03:27:00.000-04:00

That bated breath has likely turned your face all shades of purple. The interview as performed by Mary has finally arrived. You may now inhale. Good. Now exhale. Yes, yes, very good. Now get out those munchies and take the needed bathroom breaks because I don’t intend to stop along the way.

You will be stuck on a deserted island and have to pick two food items, one staple and one guilty pleasure. There is plenty of fresh water on the island already. What foods will you choose?

Now see, you have hit upon an embarrassing little secret here. I am a horribly picky eater. My husband is a picky eater, but in completely different food groups than me. Somehow, this genetically combined into a punnet square of children, 3 of whom are as picky as we are, 2 who are MUCH pickier (though I didn’t know that was possible), and 1 child who is willing to try almost anything once. That, of course, has nothing to do with what you asked.

I suppose for the staple I would have to pick N.Y. strip steak. Since this is an island, there are bound to be assorted fruits and crabs and such (see, I am well versed in Survivor 101 – Mark Burnett style). One guilty pleasure in food circles….ah. In the age before tooth sensitivity, it would have certainly been something chocolate. But alas, the effects of age are far reaching - oops, tangent again. Pepperidge Farm strawberry Verona cookies. I will be suffering Coca-Cola withdrawal, but there will be no one else there to endure the effects of my angst, so I will survive it.

Other than the Bible, what philosophy, book, idea has had the greatest affect on you?

Oh, that is indeed a difficult question. I tend to pick up little bits and pieces of things I read and drop them into my soul when they just ring true. Choosing just one from an entire lifetime of reading (which also necessitates actually remembering the sources) is going to be rough.

I would have to say that C.S. Lewis’s description of God being outside of time so that He can know quite well what our future holds - not because it is predestined, but because He sees all times at once. I believe that is in The Great Divorce.

Is it more essential to develop beliefs or gain knowledge?

You know I have taken the MBTI, and I know you have taken it. I bet you already know what my knee jerk reactionary answer will be. I will say it is more essential to develop beliefs. Those beliefs are then supported with knowledge (a la Psalm 111:10), but accepted upon faith even in the absence of true certainty. This is not to say that one should simply have beliefs in things merely to have beliefs. I can believe with all of my heart that my empty soda bottle is a submarine that will carry the rulers of the dust mite kingdom to the sunken isle of Atlantis, but that isn’t going to make it true.

In order for meaningful knowledge to come into the mind, the spirit has to have a starting point. If you went to the library to do a research paper, you wouldn’t research and write the paper without first picking a topic.

Blogging: Why do you blog and how has your perception of blogging changed (or not changed) since you began?

You’re a sneaky one, you are – working several questions into the guise of just one (on more than one occasion, I might add). Why do I blog? The answer is multifold. I had some online friends who blogged. The writer inside of me, the part of me that always needed to write, wanted to come out and play with them. That is part of the answer. But there is more depth to it than that. Following links on blogs that led to other links and other links led me sometimes to rants and outpourings of feeling that were in disagreement with my beliefs. I have no problem with that. What got to me was the fact that some of those disagreements were phrased as judgments of character. That was hard for me to take.

That was part of what worked me up to the point of being able to actually set about it - that and John Stanko – who is linked on my blog – preached one of his Purpose messages at our church, and I just felt like God was telling me that it was something I should do. I realize saying I felt like God was telling me to blog might come across as arrogant, but that is not how I mean it at all. In fact, quite the opposite is true. My faith is often a very quiet faith. Perhaps it shows to people in the real world more by my actions than my words much of the time. My very insecurity finds comfort in the anonymity of this medium. Ironically, I have never used my voice to lay down any of the thoughts which were brewing in my mind when I originally set out on this venture.

My perception of blogging has perhaps not changed so drastically. I have had online relationships with people for many years in other ways, so the community aspect of it did not take me by surprise in the least. I guess I would have to say that the things which took me the most by surprise were that I had anything to say at all, and paradoxically, that I regularly ran out of things to say. It also amazes me that anyone who didn’t already know me online actually reads my humble words (and, if they have gotten this far in this massive tome, they must actually find something enjoyable in it too)!

Name your favorites in the following categories:

Song: currently it would probably be MercyMe Undone

Movie: I have two categories in favorite movie (and usually more than one choice for each).
Favorite overall: Schindler’s List
Favorite for sheer re-watch-ability: Armageddon

TV Show: Right now? Geesh, probably Heroes (but most of my true favorites are no longer on the air)

Book: Ah, here I CANNOT pick just one. My favorites would likely be The Lord of the Rings trilogy, The Harry Potter books, A book entitled Notes to Myself by Hugh Prather, and many, many books which have touched me much more deeply than I could express. I really should have done the book meme.

Artist: I really just like what I like. I cannot say that I am well versed in art as a whole, but there are certain things which touch me. I would say Michelangelo is one artist who does that on a more consistent basis than many. I also love Norman Rockwell. I tend to be deeply touched by photography too.

How did you and your husband meet? A funny thing happened on the way to the forum….

Okay, so technically, we had sort of met before this event, but we hadn’t really talked, so we stick to this as the story of how we met. We were both working midnight shift in a fast food establishment which got robbed. We were locked into the refrigerator with all of the other on duty employees. This is how we discovered we had faith in common and began a friendship (during which we were both quite firmly attached to other people). We remained friends for about 5 years before he asked me to marry him. One would think five years would have been long enough for him to realize what he was getting himself into!

On an interesting side note, the bank I worked in got robbed the day we started premarital counseling with the pastor who was going to marry us. That’s some kind of legacy to hand down to the kidlets, don’t you think?

It has been nine years since your son died. How was atypical "before" different than atypical "now"?

Atypical was a lot more typical. The first thought in my mind when hearing a couple announce the newly discovered sex of their unborn baby was not one of fear that something would go wrong. I had a naïve belief that getting past the first trimester meant a baby would be coming home to live at the end of the journey. Although I always tried to see the deeper things in life, Caleb’s death helped me to really concentrate on not taking things for granted. This was especially true in the beginning, while the grief was still fresh. Everything fell into categories of deeper meaning or complete triviality.

My marriage improved because it was so much easier not to sweat the small stuff. My faith matured. Although I had experienced loss before, although I had felt deep connection to God before, now I knew for sure that He could carry me through even those moments in which I couldn’t muster up the will to take the next breath. He would hold my hand and lead me on the journey, no matter how long it took. He would bring people into my life who understood the truth that a lost child is still your child, even if you don’t get to raise him – who would remember the birthday of a baby that most find it easier to forget. He would cry with me, for He too lost a son.

And on that note of intermingled hope and sadness, the interview draws to a close.

The other portion of this interview compels me to extend the offer of my interview skills for your personal use. I have stated the methods in my previous interview should you care to take me up on it. If you slogged your way through this post, I offer you my heartfelt thanks (and a congratulatory muffin).

Sweet dreams.

conversationally speaking

2007-03-31T13:38:00.000-04:00

The hubster and I try very hard to instill in our children a sense of the absurd. This is to ensure that therapists will have certain employment many years into the future. Here is a snippet of conversation I overheard last evening as the hub-man was putting Happy Feet into the DVD player.

Pink(excitedly): Dad, dat Happy Feet?

Dad: No, this is Sad Feet. They take the penguins' little feet and chop them all off right about there (indicating ankle height).

Pink (still in good humor): Oh, den dey go like dis.

Here she exhibited a rather comical rendition of a crippled Happy Feet tap dance - I wish the video camera had been near at hand.

On a side note, I have been pondering the idea of giving super secret screen names to each member of the brat household (in the somewhat overly optimistic view that it might aid people outside of the family circle in actually keeping track of them all. But who am I kidding? I can't even remember their real names! Yes, I am kidding - pretty much). Any suggestions will be considered (or at least enjoyed for their amusemesnt factor).

interview with a toothless vampire

2007-03-30T14:44:00.000-04:00

Yes, I have given in to the interview meme which is currently making the rounds of the internet. Having great curiosity about the unrevealed Oddities of the Oddmix, and interested to discover what manner of questions might burst forth from his fingers, I threw myself into the mix (oooh, I made a funny…har har). Here follow the results:

1. Have you home schooled all of your kids from the start? Yes, I have, though it was a much simpler operation when only one child was involved.

2. Did you experience resistance to the idea of homeschooling from family, friends, or your kids? Well, this is a rather loaded question. I have been doing the homeschooling thing for twelve years. This means that when I started, the whole idea of it was a lot less well known. I never encountered resistance from my mother. My father questioned the decision at first, but has since decided it is for the best. My sister was a teacher at the time (as was her husband). I believe she found the idea tasteless in some ways, but times have changed in that regard. My mother-in-law did not like it in the beginning, but since she has discovered that it is one more bragging point she can add to the “MY daughter-in-law…” list, she has been quite happy about it.

The chief arguing point from most people who have a negative comment usually concerns socialization. I tend to counter that with the argument that they get plenty of peer socialization through church and rec sports, and they are a lot less likely to develop an inability to communicate effectively with people who are outside of their peer group.

I have never met with negative feedback from my kids about being home schooled as opposed to public schooled, but they do resist in the typical way of young boys who feel that they have much better things to do with their time than to actually use it for learning something. I guess you could also count N’s initial school reaction as resistance:

Me: This is the letter ‘A’.

N: No it isn’t.

3. What did you do before you took up the mantle of Mom/Teacher/Domestic Engineer?
I guess the best answer to this would be that I tried to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up. After high school, I went to a respected university for a year and a few months with a Writing Seminars major and a minor in physics. I dropped out for love and a career (ha) in midnight shift fast food management.

I later went into banking while taking college courses in accounting. I continued writing poetry in my spare time. I dropped out of college a second time when I became too pregnant to fit in those attached chair desks they have. I’ve never gone back, but occasionally think about it (though, other than a mother, I still haven’t figured out what I want to be, so I don’t know what I would concentrate on).

4. With all of those brothers, is Pink a tomboy or a girly-girl? Do you encourage or discourage her in this? The answer to the first question would be yes and yes. She, like her mother before her, is very much a tomboy, but she is also extremely aware of the power of her femininity. She is girl through and through. I encourage her to become who she is, whether that entails auto mechanics, fashion design, or rodeo clownship. I have tried very hard not to regulate toys for either sex based upon gender dynamics. As of right now, she has a desire to play rec football next year when she is old enough. All of that said, boys and girls are very different creatures, aren’t they?

5. What is a “poochie tree”? When they first sang the song, I just assumed poochies were dogs, though I can’t say I have ever seen them growing on trees. Upon questioning, however, I was informed that a poochie is a made-up lego character inhabiting the imagination of my eight year old. I wonder if their droppings are those tiny specialty lego parts.

Now, I will steal the Odd one’s twist, instead of following the traditional format of the meme. Should you wish to be interviewed, let me know; or (the twist) ask me some more questions in the comment section and I will answer them in my best imitation of a timely fashion. I will also post at least an equal number of questions to you here on my blog. Then, you can grab ‘em and run off to your own place with the answers. Just let me know when you have those answers up so I can link you (and read them, for that matter).

I have also asked Mary to interview me, so that should be popping up in the next few days.

the tangential nature of the brat

2007-03-29T22:44:00.000-04:00

I am rejoicing because I have just placed each of the kidlets into their own bed for a night which will, with any luck, be consumed by sleeping. This means, dear reader, I may actually get to sleep in a bed tonight myself – the first time in almost a week.

As I made my way down the stairs, containing my jubilance to prevent the accompanying sounds of leapage from rousing the newly bedded beasties, I allowed my brain to consider the possibility of attempting school tomorrow. I think I have given myself permission to take the day off even if they are all back to form. At least two of them really need an additional day to just recover from the exhaustive nature of ailing. Besides, it is Friday, and what is the sense of having a one day school week when all would be much more pleasantly served by having a brief respite before the complete immersion of Monday morning? But then, no matter which decision I make, it will leave me with guilt. I am good at second-guessing my decisions, so I should be used to the resulting guilt by now, but acclimation to the discomforts of the psyche is not my strong suit.

Strangely, this very topic of guilt (and my ability to peruse a few blogs I only get to visit occasionally due to increased sit-down time this evening) led me on another tangent. As a teacher, I am alternately amused and frustrated by my children’s inability to write about any subject for more than the minimum number of words. The amusement comes from their tendency to cover the integral point of the assignment in such short order. The frustration comes from knowing that this brevity will not serve them well on SATs and in a college setting.

Pursuing this thought, I pondered the beautifully written and lengthy blog entries I admire from so many. Part of me envies that ability. Me? I am prone to long-windedness or silence in conversation (virtual or otherwise), but when I write - be it poetry, blog entries, or little thoughts to myself - I tend toward minimalism. I say what I say using few words. Granted, I regularly use more words than I actually need, because it is often fun to do so, but I tend to skip the connective thought tissue. Part of me recognizes this as a potential strength. Anyway, the point here is that the very habit which frustrates me in my children’s writing is the defining particle of my own.

The tangent continues. Isn’t it often the case that the very trait which draws us to someone else is also the source of our greatest irritation in them? My oldest son is very inventive of spirit. This is a wonderful thing. And yet, when my husband brought home the MBTI description of his “work personality,” it contained a line that brought this son’s image to mind so clearly. To paraphrase: When asking a child of this temperament type to take out the garbage, he is likely to spend hours designing a new and better way of getting garbage to the curb that does not involve human intervention, but never actually doing the chore. Yeah, the irritant bares its fangs – same trait, different angle.

This then leads me to a memory of that very child’s 3rd or 4th birthday on which my mother gifted him with pulleys and levers per my request (after he had used an enormous ball of yarn, a tricycle, and several dining room chairs to create a complex alarm system for the lower level of our house). Have I created the monster or merely given him room to realize his potential? When did I stop allowing that kind of latitude? Was it when the population density increased, thus decreasing the square footage available for abstract thought? Was it when my body started getting older and less able to avoid the unexpected chaos? Have I truly stopped allowing it at all?

This then leads into thoughts of crackers; after all, cracker crumbs do get everywhere. Crackers bring the thoughts neatly back to the stomach bug, and I don’t even remember seeing Kevin Bacon anywhere along the way.

ego strokes

2007-03-29T00:57:00.000-04:00

So, the pink one is still ill, but she started acting human again around four this afternoon. Sitting on my lap this evening, the following conversation took place:

Pink: Mom, you girl wike me?

Me: Yes, I'm a girl like you.

Pink: You buttercup like me too!

You see, her father calls her buttercup from time to time.

Time passed, and I was off doing laundry. The hubster called me into the room to update me on the continuation of this conversation.

Dad: Are you my little buttercup?

Pink: No!

Dad: You're not my little buttercup?

Pink: No! Mom's you buttercup first, then me buttercup!

The man says, "See she's got the pecking order straight." We will here let our ego inflate ignoring the fact that he did follow up with, "Even if it doesn't seem that way most of the time."

updating the masses

2007-03-27T23:11:00.000-04:00

Well, the three youngest have been down for the count today. Although I would love to post something fun and interesting sometime soon, my ability to think clearly on two hours' sleep is somewhat limited.

Therefore, I will just go over into the corner and mope (while still counting my blessings).

On a parting note, here are the lyrics to the most recent serenade (sung in rousing chorus by almost every one of the little imps).

Oh poochie tree, oh poochie tree,
How lovely are thy droppings!

The hubster says they get it from my side of the family. I'm so proud!

croutons

2007-03-27T00:09:00.000-04:00

sleeping with bread
Years ago, when N was just a babe, we rarely got the opportunity to eat out. On one special day, we did get to go out. I remember having a chicken sandwich and a salad. My picky child, he ate the croutons and the roll - two for the price of one. The days of cheap eating are long gone, but I have tried hard to always hold close the memory.

The stomach virus has hit our abode. And I find myself thankful for the small things. S was the first to fall victim. At 14, he is largely self-sufficient when ill. Today, it has been nipping at my ankles, but I rejoice. My intestinal fortitude remained intact as I expunged the explosive evidence of an 8 year-old who didn’t quite make it in time.

And now, while I type, I cling desperately to the remnants of gratitude as that selfsame child peppers me with wakeful questions and comments – at midnight, for this is an indication of slightly improved health.

What gives me the least gratitude tonight? Well, I don’t think anyone enjoys cleaning up after unintentional bodily emissions (especially when feeling a bit on the queasy side).

And for what am I most grateful right now? I am the most grateful for the fact that everyone isn’t sick at once. I am most grateful for the hope that some might sidestep this illness altogether. I am eternally grateful for the God of small favors.

through the years

2007-03-24T01:39:00.000-04:00

Tagged by virtue of suggestion from Mary, I will hereby meme-ificate.

1. Go to Wikipedia and type in your Birthday Month and day only.

January 31

2. List 3 Events that occurred that day.

1606 - Gunpowder Plot: Guy Fawkes is executed for his plotting against Parliament and James I of England.
- because I love my British friends (and watching fireworks when they are far enough away that the booming doesn’t hurt, and the sparks can’t hit me).

1930 - 3M markets Scotch Tape.
- because it is just about as far as you can get from the first event (unless you want to go in for stupid puns like, “Sticking it to them.”).

2004 - Mystery Science Theater 3000 ends its run on the Sci-Fi Channel.
- because I liked MST3K when I stumbled past it, and because I am eclectic, and because most of the entries had to do with war, death, and betrayal. We’ve had enough of that going on with the kids this week. I don’t need any more.

3. List 2 important Birth days.

1543 - Tokugawa Ieyasu, Shogun of Japan (d. 1616)
- just because that is cool.

1872 - Zane Grey, American Western writer (d. 1939)
- because my wonderful grandfather (who died when I was 13) loved to read his books

4. List 1 Death.

1956 - A. A. Milne, English author (b. 1882)
- I always made up stories and voices for my stuffed friends – so it is only fitting.

5. List a Holiday or Observance. (if any)

Catholicism - Feast day of St. John Bosco, patron saint of Christian apprentices, editors, and publishers
- Well, I’m not Catholic, but sounds like a good saint to share a feast day with.

6. Tag 5 other bloggers.

I suppose I will take the easy way out here and say, "If you read this, consider yourself tagged."

a blog’s life

2007-03-22T01:52:00.000-04:00

The title of my blog, “Nonsensical Text,” is actually taken from the name of a file on my computer. Many years ago, my closest friend was living in another state. At around that time, the hubster was trying to ease my fear of technology by introducing me to the more people-friendly aspects of computers. He did this by signing me up for an email list of stay-home moms (and one dad), and by finding a new network on IRC where we could go to “chat” with our dear friend.

Having developed a tradition of relay-writing when my friend lived in another country (that entailed actual pens, paper, stamps, and patience), we decided that we should continue this trend online. When other people started joining us in our little IRC chat room, we would make up silly limericks, one line at a time - awarding kudos for creative input from any and all. We also began the silly story.

Now, one of the primary goals of these little stories was to be as random and ridiculous as possible while still maintaining some semblance of a plotline. A few of them were deemed worthy of the old “cut, paste, and save.” My favorite of those was entitled “Nonsensical.” It was saved as a text file, thus “Nonsensical Text.” When I made the decision to start blogging, it seemed like such an obvious choice for a title.

I have always been a kaleidoscope with flakes and shards of inanity and profundity dancing a complicated rhythm to a rapid beat – sometimes colliding forcefully with comedic or brutal results.

At some point in the past few months, I seem to have misplaced my nonsense.

So, in an attempt to jump start my silly, I am hereby posting the original “Nonsensical.” Parts in italics were played by me, the others played by my friend. Please keep in mind, it WAS very late at night.

--

Whilst walking through the jungle, one particularly steamy day, backpack on head, I came across a.... (your turn)
slathering Siberian tiger, ready to give birth. I had a medical kit with me, so put on my gloves and
my boots, put up my umbrella in case it rained, and opened my dictionary under Siberian. Unfortunately
the dictionary was in Portuguese, which I do not read. So I went to the nearest...
snowball stand and bought a chocolate marshmallow blueberry lima bean snowball for the tiger, as I had heard it gives energy during labour. But
the tiger began to choke on the lima beans, causing me to jump up and down on her chest, while trying to appear unobtrusive. The cubs splurted out with each jump, but alas, the lima bean remained lodged, until...
an earthquake hit the scene. The tiger tumbled down the gap between the plates, and got stuck in the dishwashing liquid

At this point I remembered my jungle quake survival guide. Pulling it out, I found the solution to the problem. But where to get a half dozen African elephants in heat??
I called a friend of mine in Norway, on my cellular, as he had said he had connections. He promised to fly them out on the next boomerang (he was stationed in Australia) Just then I remembered
the aeronautical improbability of catching a boomerang big enough to hold the expected parcel. So I set about building a high powered electronic baseball mitt. Unfortunately, the cubs were crying for milk. Becoming distracted, I accidentally...
knocked my chest with the hammer I was using, and triggered a let down. The cubs clambered all over me, 15 of them, and I could scarcely locate my
pillows. After all the cubs were satisfied, I dropped in a dead faint from the exertion. A passing bookmobile collected me and deposited me on the steps of the local library
where a janitor picked me up and dropped me in the trash can. I suppose I did look rather disheveled. Well, as luck would have it, I had a bag of M&S chocolate buttons tucked in the back of my bra, so I tried to reach it, but
an alley cat was busily fiddling with my bra strap, in an attempt to steal my precious cargo. In the fury of the natural chocolate protection instinct, I inadvertently
ate the cat by mistake. oh what a disaster. All that came to mind in my frenzied paranoid vegetarian hypocritical state was
spit or swallow? (original text)
how to cover up the unmistakable odor of partially digested cat from my breath. So I reached around, rapidly this time before more harm should befall me, and gobbled the whole bag of buttons (edit)

as the sweet nectar reached my esophagus I drifted on into a state of blissful nothingness. But, like all good things,
there was a negative side. My esophagus was apparently having a very bad day, and tried to horde all the chocolate, allowing none to pass beyond it. As a result, my throat swelled to the size of the Goodyear blimp, and my face started to look like
a maggot infested basketball. I began to fear that no one would ever recognise me, when I remembered the tiger cubs. It occurred to me that I had left them behind, with a dozen horny elephants (I think?). I thought I
would take advantage of my current proportions, and bounce back to my prior locale. However, the directional course finder that I had previously installed in my earlobes had been knocked askew by the bookmobile driver, so I
pulled an inflatable motorcycle out of the locket I always wear. By the time I had finished blowing it up, it was very late in the day and I began to crave some
piping hot lentil bean soup. So I set up camp in a nearby tree, reconstituted some soup out of the pills in my survival kit, and deflated my throat with a knitting needle (pre sterilized). I settled down to get some rest only to find
I had sat on a slug. Figuring that this day was just not going to get better by itself, I decided to go buy a keg of beer. I had money tucked inside my sock, so I set off for the liquor store.

On the way, however,
I was affronted by a passing missionary who mistook me for a member of the goola goola tribe. He shoved a goolanese bible into my hands and began to loudly sing "Blest Be the Tie that Binds". Feeling a bit powerless, I found myself
kneeling down before him and mumbling goolanese prayers to the goolabong in the sky. When I arose, the missionary slapped me on the back in a congratulatory fashion, but he opened the knitting needle hole in my neck with the force, and all the chocolate buttons squirted out on him. He thought it was a miracle, and started
to dance around speaking in tongues. Unfortunately the language uttered was the mating call for the goolanese wild boar. He was quite unprepared for their affection. Taking this as an opportunity for escape, I
donned my clown suit, which was hanging on a nearby tree, and leaped into the pouch of a kangaroo. Steering, by the reins I found inside (which later turned out to be
a bungee cord left there when the previous occupant vacated), I made my way quickly back to the deserted cubs where I found
that they had built a log cabin out of gopher wood. I went inside, and there on the table was a
patented acme soap sucking device. I assembled it quickly after disregarding the instructions and ran from the cabin.
I was expecting the cubs to follow me, I'm not sure to this day why I ran from the cabin, but some inner force made me do it. Alas, the cubs did not follow. I returned cautiously, peeked through the window, and found that the soap sucking device was actually the mother tiger reincarnated!

I must say, to all the children who hear my tale, that I have never been so satisfied that my pain led to another's gain. Just think, had I not had a knitting needle with me, those cubs may never have got their real mother back. The end.

the moral is, never leave home without a knitting needle

gathering crumbs from under the table

2007-03-20T16:20:00.000-04:00

I missed bread last week. Actually, I have missed being on the computer at all for most of the past week or so. However, even though I am late, I don’t feel comfortable letting the bread pass by for another entire week.

Although computer time was severely limited this weekend, I did find myself entertaining various bloggable thoughts. Through the passage of my second-born’s birthday, assorted family issues, and the daylight savings time associated jet lag, my mind has been awhirl with ponderings. I can’t really separate these thoughts into the respective good and bad columns, since the alternate sides are so tightly wound – forming a single braid.

When I was younger, I was much more emotionally intense than I have been in recent years. Strong passion was a hallmark of almost every moment. Raw patches developed from the constant exposure forced upon open wounds. Instability was ever threatening to take the dominant role. Other people’s hardships often acted as a rudder at least as powerful as personal experience. This constant battleground of emotional upheaval gave rise to a need for spiritual balm.

I learned through the years to deal with the intensity. Like ground cover wards off erosion, placing a small patch of apathy on the rawest of spaces limits the extent to which I am affected by my own and other people’s hurt - the sharp edges of those griefs are less likely to cut deeply. But apathy is emotional kudzu. Planted to keep the nutritious soil and tender green plants from washing away by pounding wind and rains, it soon covers patches and weaves a net of protection.

It doesn’t stop growing. Before long, it sends creeping vines onto bordering soil. The whole garden is overwhelmed by their intrusion. Flowers and shrubs…walkways, benches – places of beauty and comfort – soon disappear under a sea of green. Apathy may creep more slowly, but if not guarded, it too will overtake all that is good and strong. Even when kept in check, some of the more intense emotions are dulled.

Spiritually, I have to believe that God has a better way to deal with emotional overload than apathy – a way which holds no danger to the blessed giftings which are enshrouded in an emotional heart. The question is, am I able to trust Him enough to hand Him the garden shears?

analyzing the written word

2007-03-14T23:33:00.000-04:00

Since I have been missing in action for some time, it is only fitting that I re-emerge with all of the seriousness and hefty content typical to my nature, right?

So, Saturday I had to go to a wedding shower followed by a funeral (while lamenting the fact that I was missing out on hours of birthday party prep time). I stopped at a grocery store between the two places in order to get a drink. Upon getting back to my vehicle, I discovered the presence of an advertising flier beneath my windshield wiper.

"Tomorrow's Future Learning Center"

Just a few things struck me as odd about this.

Considering the only difference between "the future" and "tomorrow's future" is the rest of today, is it really worth spending the extra money on ink for the printer just to make that distinction?

Does this mean that this place will not be a learning center until tomorrow's future?

Is this a place in which you merely sit and wait until the future comes along, granting with it the premission for you to join the ranks of those who learn?

Is this a place where you only learn about tomorrow's future? And if so, how do they know what to put in the text books since the events needed to fill the pages of the tome have yet to occur?

I do have to give these guys credit for their drive and determination, though. I was only in the store for three minutes, after all. Maybe they put it on in yesterday's past and were just waiting for the invisibility spell to wear off.

sing a new song

2007-03-06T12:27:00.000-05:00

My mother gave us a bag of bunny shaped marshmallows. We all know the importance of doing your research, and this is integral background information.

Mr. T (a.k.a. SpongeBob):

Three little bunnies jumping on the bed
One fell off and landed in my mouth.

Two little bunnies jumping on the bed
One flew off and bounced off my nose
So I ate him.

Lots of little bunnies jumped in the pool
And then they had to go wee-wee.

recipe for comfort

2007-03-06T00:51:00.000-05:00

sleeping with bread

stale bread: It’s the same old cry of sorrow. Being home for years on end leads to a perpetual cycle of battles with a similar series of issues. I battle my own motivation (or lack thereof). I battle six strong-willed children who constantly push the boundaries because they know, sooner or later, exhaustion, inattention, or mercy will grant them a one time reprieve. Sometimes, I just get so sick of the battleground. It is the sheer volume of days that makes it seem more intolerable. I let myself slip into an attitude of resigned tolerance. The guilt over succumbing to the familiar patterns threatens to cause a downward spiral.

fresh bread: Like the spark of newborn love, I long to feel passion – even amid the daily routines. I see the joy in a kindergartener’s discoveries, the elation of the simple, and a smile plays at the corners of my mouth.

french toast: Stale bread is good for something. When making French toast, the best bread for the job is a thick, crusty sort with just a bit of staleness teasing at the surface. If it weren’t for the monotonous routines, I would miss the milestones of maturation playing out before me. Time goes by in a heartbeat. Before long, I will look back on even the most mundane of days with a wistful sigh. Lord, help me remember that in the well-worn trenches of the front lines.

As R sits in the living room, enjoying a popcorn snack, help me to see past the crumbs and spills to take joy in the interpersonal relationships she is learning to foster by “sharing” with her doll. Popcorn with a naked Barbie! There’s nothing else quite like it.

in the secret....

2007-03-05T01:00:00.000-05:00

My best friend is pregnant. As she talks to me about the cuteness of the children writing cards for their unborn baby sister, I smile with the vision that is brought to mind. But there is a quieter vision – the form of my inner self on bended knee crying out to God, “Please, Lord, don’t let these children lose their innocence!”

As I calendar watch, I feel a sense of relief as the 20 week mark passes – the invisible line drawn to distinguish between miscarriage and stillbirth should the unthinkable occur. I pray that is a demarcation that will have no bearing on her life. I know it is a very small statistical possibility. I am not consumed with fear, but the unwitting acknowledgement of the possibility is ever present with me, and will likely always be.

I look at the beautiful sonogram pictures – one so preciously framing the delicate, long fingers of a little girl in the making. I am in awe of the handiwork of God; I am grateful for this life.

There came a time in my subsequent pregnancies in which I surrendered to loving the child fiercely. If that had been the only time I had with those children, I didn’t want to feel that I had cheated them. This child, growing so strong in the womb of my closer-than-sister, this child I surround with my prayers and know that, no matter what, she will be held in the loving arms of God.

deep thought

2007-03-02T23:46:00.000-05:00

I have been thinking about a lot over the past several years of my life: stoichiometry, the exceptions to phonics rules, emerging maturity in my progeny, politics, religion, the manifestations of faith. My mind is a constant whirl of thoughts on subjects profound and inane. Even so, very rarely do my thoughts make it to print. Imagine my amazement, then, when my friend Mary graced me with a thinking blogger award.

“Eek!”

That single word very tidily sums up my initial response. So many writers who I stumble across on the internet inspire me to think. I am humbled by their talents and the depth of their thoughts. I am not of their caliber. My musings tend toward little snippets of random thought, but thoughts they are. I acknowledge that often the items which spew forth from my fingers cause me to think long and hard (other times the babble just causes me to roll my eyes in dismay, but that’s another story). Perhaps, then, I should also let myself feel comfortable in the possibility that they do the same for someone else.

This is all a very long-winded way of trying to just say, “Thank you, Mary,” but I have never been good at graciously accepting a compliment.

Part two of my “eekedness” involved choosing five bloggers who make me think (to whom I pay forward this honor). There are many out there – some I have happened upon quite by accident once or twice, and never located again. Those are obviously out of the running. I immediately eliminated anyone who (to my knowledge) recently received this honor from another source. A few of my choices are people I do not really know at all. One of them doesn’t even know I exist. That said, I will move on.

My first honoree is one who has no clue of my presence. I found his blog quite by mistake one day, but happy accident it was. Fortunately I bookmarked the blog. A few months ago, the link suddenly stopped working. How grateful I was when a recent google search yielded results. Some noteworthy stuff can be found in his attic (the resting place of some material from his old blog – before the great disappearance). Lee Kennedy of A Curate's Egg is a former chemist turned psychology student who lives in Australia. Though I am not always in agreement with his conclusions about every matter, I can honestly say that even his snippets make me think. I give him this honor knowing full well it may go no further. I have never even posted a comment on his blog. I promise to get over my paralyzing introversion long enough to at least pass a comment on to him.

My second choice is for a mom with whom I have only the most cursory of connections. I lurk on her blog regularly, and have commented once. Nonetheless, Omegamom is someone who never fails to get me thinking. There have been a few times where her holding forth on a subject has caused me to view it in a way I never had before. Some examples of this include thoughts on adoption or infertility.

The thought provoking nature of these blogs is overt. My other choices make me think in a completely different way. Most of the time, they make me think because they make me feel. Or they make me think from the simple phrasing of a sentence. The nuance is the catalyst of thought.

Heather at Many Pieces of Me is one of those thinking bloggers. Her quick wit and fine-tuned appreciation of the ironic never cease to inspire reflection. One example from January shows how a few words can say so much. Even when she is talking about the little nothings that make up day to day life Heather has a way of making me think deeply – often about the things left unsaid.

My spidery friend is someone else whose emotional writing tends to touch a space in my soul-matter. When waxing poetic about her artistic heart, or sharing the simple joy of our mutual friend’s healthy born baby, she reaches a part of me that feels more intensely and cares about things more passionately. She inspires the kind of thought that makes me know I am alive.

And then there is jouette. I believe I can blame her for the fact that I ever got into blogging in the first place. When her heart moves with thought on the precious nature of life, or she reaches into the tenderness that comprises her in order to rhapsodize about the love of her life, I am touched. That touching of the heart provokes pondering into the nature of human relationship.

So there you have it. And now all I have to do is remain strong under the pressure of this honor and post only weighty and profound essays of unquestionable merit. Does anyone know a good ghost writer?

the great flour spill of 2007

2007-02-28T10:44:00.000-05:00

Hi, my name is T, and I have a problem. When I slip up, or don’t do something on the schedule I have imposed for myself, I tend to give up without even trying. It is in defiance of this trend that I bake bread today – on a Wednesday. I will follow through even if I am late in doing so.

I haven’t been feeling overwhelmingly alive of late. Puttering along and attaining a small percentage of success in knocking out the old “to do” list seem to be the highest summits I can climb. I once read that we, the human race, tend to judge others by their actions but wish them to judge us by our intentions. I’ve needed that merciful judgment of late. As I ponder my predicament, I become aware that this trend has been in the works for quite awhile now. Perhaps it is simply a byproduct of being a stay-home mom for so many years. Getting stuck in a rut tends to dry up a lot of the fuel that gives inspiration and sparkle to day to day life.

I am often an emotionally-driven individual. The logical side of my being is quite persuasive, but the catalyst for action is often found in the heart. It is, perhaps, one of the most difficult aspects of the spiritual journey for me - to soldier forth without strong emotional motivating factors. Each leg of the journey, then, feels even more obligatory; thus it is harder to press on. I am drained.

Ironically, this condition leads to some pretty impressive evidence of God’s hand in my life. The very fact that I can soldier on – just because it is the right thing to do – is evidence. Granted, the internal dialogue is deafening with each step. I often don’t accomplish what I set out to do. The tendency to become paralyzed by the whispers of guilt is still strong in me. But, I cannot simply stop. God has seeped into the fabric of me to such an extent that I am able, as an adult, to do what I was never able to do as a teen – keep plugging away. That knowledge – that makes me feel more alive than anything else ever could.

blind faith

2007-02-25T00:11:00.001-05:00

Sitting in the dark, I am forced to rely on my instincts. I am a two-fingered typist. I am also lazy. My husband just woke up from his accidental slumber on the couch and headed off to bed. On his way there, he turned off the light to the room I am sitting in – force of habit. The thing is, now I can’t see the keys on the keyboard. I must know their location better than I believe I do.

Trusting my abilities doesn’t come so easily for me. I am very good at expecting the worst from myself – or at least some level of failure. I have been given gifts. God is quite generous in that respect. I guess it’s just a shame that I never seem to trust in them until I have no choice but to rely on them in the darkness.

growing up

2007-02-22T00:42:00.000-05:00

The N boy got his license. I think I talked so much about its impending arrival that I forgot to mention when it actually happened. Today, I let him drive himself (and three of his brothers) to piano lessons for the first time while I stayed home.

Somehow a pro and con table just doesn't do this situation justice.

Goodness gracious, I guess I have to grow up sometime soon.

me me me 1 - 2 - 3 and little white paw prints

2007-02-21T01:29:00.000-05:00

So, even though Mary didn't tag me (see the crocodile tears?), I am going to grab hold of the 123 book meme too.

Directions:
1. Find the nearest book.
2. Name the book & the author.
3. Turn to page 123.
4. Go to the fifth sentence on the page. Copy out the next three sentences and post to your blog.
5. Tag three more folks.

I must tell you before I start that I (of the anal retentive nature) found these directions to be less clear than they could have been (The fifth sentence which is completely on the page? The three sentences following the fifth, or including the fifth, or the fifth AND the three following it? Now you understand why my husband should be lauded greatly for enduring me for so long).

1. found it

2. The Measure of a Man by Sidney Poitier

3. found it

4."But being Americans of the middle class or higher, the only black people they would have encountered were, for the most part, the servants in their home and at the studios - blacks who attended Miss Hepburn in whatever ways she required. And as for Mr. Tracy, he struck me as a very human guy who, if given the chance, would come down every time on the side of decency and fairness for all. Now, maybe I thought that in part because of the memorable role he played in Bad Day at Black Rock, in which he was wonderfully compassionate to a character played by a black actor named Juano Hernandez."

5. tagging Heather, the spider lady, and Jouette though none of them need feel compelled in the slightest to accept said tag.

Onward and downward:

Have you ever noticed that, even if you tightly close the bedroom door while painting a radiator cover that somehow the cat will sneak in and walk across its freshly painted surface as soon as your back is turned? Murphy's Law, however, hit a snag. The feline in question chose to dismount onto the dropcloth as opposed to leaving perfect white footprints across the newly laid floor.

huggin dat bread

2007-02-20T00:44:00.000-05:00

sleeping with bread - in a bed!

Being fragmented usually refers to thoughts and feelings which are internal - when one’s focus is spread in varying directions, and the gaps between them are not easily connected. Wholeness, on the other hand, does not necessarily denote a single area of focus, but a harmony to the varying aspects of life.

While it could easily be said that the past week contained the mental type of fragmentation, it was evidenced quite clearly in the physical realm as well. My children have been riding a roller coaster of sickness for about two weeks now. While one day is good and another not so good, the whining and need to be cuddled have certainly been present even on the good days. I have been trying to catch up on some of the schooling around here and also on forcing myself into some kind of recognizable routine – one which allows for spontaneity, yes, but routine nonetheless. Add to this the sudden and unexpected renovation of our bedroom, and you will get a picture of what things have been like around here.

The room had no closet. Da hubster bought a wardrobe. He was merely removing stuff from the room to take up the carpet in that spot to install the wardrobe. Da wife – that’s me – was sooooooo thrilled to see the ugly, orange, lint-grabbing , seventies- loving, bacteria-breeding carpet coming up that it ALL had to go. The wood floor underneath looked great UNTIL we got to the last corner which was patched with the wrong type of wood - and until we disassembled the waterbed to find the stained spots underneath. Said bed was discovered to be in very poor health during disassembly. Eldest son commented that, while the room was in such a state, we might as well take advantage of the emptiness to get rid of the horrible snowflake/star patterned ceiling tiles. We could not deny his rightness. Thus began the scattered phase.

My thoughts have been fragmented, certainly, but it has been so clearly evidenced by the condition of my house. My dining room table became a storehouse for all items awaiting sorting. The bureaus from the bedroom took on positions of priority in the dining room as well. Other furniture clogged one side of the living room. Paint, spackle, wood, tools and other construction supplies found resting places as varied as the bathroom, the kitchen counters, and the landing to the basement. Various baskets containing items in mid-declutter phase were perched upon any flat surface (and some not so flat). Blankets were folded on two of the living room couches which, for a week, doubled as our beds. Pandemonium. Fragmentation. Chaos.

It is a testament to the greatness of God that I actually managed to accomplish better school days amidst the wreckage than I have for some time.

The majority of the painting was finished Friday (except for a taping accident which shall remain unblogged). The flooring went down Saturday into the wee small hours – there isn’t a square corner in this house. Sunday was spent putting together a wardrobe -which is what started this whole mess. Today, I was not to be deterred by the fact that the poor husband came down with the sickies. I’m exhausted, my ankle hurts, my house is still chaotic, but there is purpose! The furniture went back into the room (some of it anyway). We bought a new bed frame (granted, we didn’t get the mattress yet). I am beginning to find the rest of my house. I actually managed to do laundry, dishes, and take a shower in the same day. Along with the physical manifestation of wholeness that a new room so clearly displays, my mind found wholeness this morning. I had drive and desire.

It’s a good thing that, spiritually, God can keep me whole even when there are bits of me floating all over the place. Even at my most scattered I still fit in the security of His arms.

Now hopefully I will get the table cleared off before school in the morning. If not, I can always blame YOU.

ingenuity

2007-02-15T11:29:00.000-05:00

egads! This was written yesterday, but I have been unable to sign in. In fact, I only managed to sign in today when leaving a comment to someone else.

Ice is no fun to walk on, drive on, or shovel. If it is ice from freezing rain, it does make the world even more beautiful – encasing it in shining crystal. Ice from sleet is crunchy, white, and looks like snow – you just don’t sink when you walk on it. It also offers the eye something to focus upon while buried in spackle, primer, paint, and exhaustion.

Last night, five of the kids seized upon the opportunity to use their snow saucers in the hour before bedtime. Off they rambled to what they term OG hill (It is in the yard of an “old guy” who lets them use it). Shortly after leaving, N reappeared with the pink one. She had pronounced the outside world “too cold” for her tastes. In her place, he departed with a raft which has somehow remained inflated since summer.

I thought perhaps the raft was going to be used in some sort of tandem-sliding exercise, and thought no more of it. As I looked out the window soon after, the real use of the misplaced floatation device became clear. The hill was so slippery that one child was stationed at the bottom with the raft which they would use to smash into their descending sibling to facilitate stoppage. Now that’s what I call ingenuity.

Today, the freckled one (M) could be seen using the same raft to teach our neighbor’s 18 month old not to fear sledding. He pulled her around her yard, down small hills, around in circles – both of them giggling every step of the way. Now that’s what Valentine’s Day is all about!

P.S. Trim painting tomorrow and flooring Friday. We MAY just be back in our room by the weekend.

P.P.S. So sorry I missed bread this week.

P.P.P.S. I am attaching a group of poems written about 22 years ago because they are seasonably appropriate (though somewhat depressing).

Reflections on Snow

a.
Starting with
unique white flakes
blanketing
dirt & ugliness.
The dirt seeps through
and white
turns gray.
Man’s efforts -
blackness from the core.
Away on a mountain,
untouched,
the white remains.
That’s what you do
for us, Lord.

b.
Ice, snow, more ice -
rock salt, sand, cat litter,
shovel sounds,
tires skid,
sirens - a fall, a crash -
another day.
Will winter never end?

c.
Snow -
delicate, soft, white -
harmless from picture windows,
chills, freezes, kills
outside.

the baker overslept

2007-02-13T00:54:00.000-05:00

No longer Monday, and no bread in sight (I will try for the morning).

I just wanted to thank you all for your thoughts for the pink one. Yes, H, it was YOU who dubbed her as such. She is doing better than she was, but still cranky.

Other children are doing the low-grade fever thing, so we shall see. The N boy got it bad Sunday, but he seemed a bit better today.

We are bogged down by an unexpected construction project which I may get a chance to blog. For now, though, I had better make my way off to sleep.

just to let you know

2007-02-09T00:46:00.000-05:00

The pink one has been under the weather for a few days, and I am finding it rather difficult to type while she is using me as a pillow. I've been reading, though. I'll try to get to the comments and post something at some point tomorrow!

the camera

2007-02-07T10:35:00.000-05:00

So, the dear husband got me a new digital camera for Christmas, and I have yet to take even one picture. Isn't technology supposed to make things easier? I have pointed the thing a few times and hit the shutter button, but to no avail.

I tried reading the manual, but ADD and, "See page 11 for more details," don't go well together - especially since turning to page 11 leads to the suggestion to turn to page 34, and so on.

It sort of reminds me of the dictionary hunts I used to enjoy in my early teen years. Looking up one word would lead to a definition containing another word I didn't know. Before long I would be flipping from page to page. Eventually I would forget the original word I was looking up.

And just think, once I manage to take a picture, I get to battle uploading images. I used to know how to do such things. Is this what age does to the mind? Will I soon be to the stage where I have to get my children to set the clock on the DVR?

Well, I guess I will give the manual another shot. At the least, it might cure my insomnia!

a trail through the woods

2007-02-05T12:54:00.000-05:00

As I wander on a path through the forest of relationships, I leave a trail of bread crumbs in my wake. Although I walk a familiar path, my internal compass is malfunctioning. I need to assure myself safe return to the cozy warmth of home. Unfortunately, I think a pigeon is following me and eating up the trail.

I sat down with the intention of pondering belonging. This is my sixth or seventh attempt. Thoughts abound, but none of them are drawing in to a closed circle of understanding.

Lately, I have not felt a strong sense of belonging. I can see the physical evidence of relational ties – to my family, my church, an online community of women who have experienced the loss of a child, several recreational sports groups. I know those connections still exist, but I seem incapable of touching the knowledge of oneness.

I don’t feel like I belong to anything right now. Perhaps saddest of all, I do not feel the indefinable connection to God. It is still there – of this I have no doubt. I just can’t feel it. Emotions are fickle. I know this. Yet, my temperament makes me prone to putting perhaps too much value on how things make me feel. Instead of taking part in the celebrations of community, I sit in the corner of the room and silently watch the goings on. Deep down, I long for someone to hear all that I am not saying.

This atmosphere is conducive to guilt. God hears it all. He is there for me in every situation. Yet, I find myself wanting something. What? I have no idea. By reaching out to the physical aspects of a spiritual need, I am putting my dependence more on the people and things in my life than on the Great Comforter. When I begin to do this, my own shortcomings are magnified. I notice all of the little ways I have failed to be the mother/daughter/sister/friend that I should have been. This knowledge makes me withdraw more into a room with invisible barriers.

Ironically, this very separation draws me more closely into relationship with others. I am in good company. Each person on this earth knows what it is like to feel alone among many. Jesus himself experienced this as he prayed in the garden – as he alone understood the big picture while preaching to the multitudes.

fear tactics

2007-02-05T00:31:00.000-05:00

So, I almost made a row of old ladies have heart attacks today.

I have this habit of pouring coke from a can into a bottle for drinking (cheaper, resealable). Upon leaving for church this morning, I couldn't find an empty soda bottle, so I opted for a water bottle. This was not a smart idea.

Being a detail oriented person, I have noticed on previous occasions that the caps are smaller on most water bottles than on their soft drink counterparts. Unfortunately, the common sensical side of me stayed in bed this morning.

After the church service, as we were leaving the sanctuary, I pulled out my drink. Being an impatient soul, I decided to unscrew the lid before completely exiting the sanctuary.

You know, lower thread count on a screw top translates directly to higher pressure?

Imagine my surprise (and everyone else's) when said cap explosively detached itself from the bottle. Fortunatley, my husband is tall enough that I could effectively hide - and I only have a small bruise.

the years of living dangerously

2007-02-03T00:16:00.000-05:00

As N drove the Daddy’s car home from the local wholesale club, the following conversation could be overheard in my vehicle.

S: Mom is really aging ten years for every birthday.

J: So she is really 410 years old.

Me: And I don’t look a day over 399.

S: I thought you were 800, but I wasn’t going to say anything.

M: We should take you to the Antiques Roadshow.

Me: I probably wouldn’t be worth very much.

J: But you’re old. And everything old goes to the Antiques Roadshow.

S: And don’t worry, I wouldn’t sell you (under his breath) for less than $300.

Me: Yeah, I’d like to see you find someone to do all of your laundry and cooking for that, even if I have been slacking lately.

M: Mom’s a slacker.

T: I’d never sell mom. She’s MY mom!

J: But we could get a Wii.

R, respectfully, remained silent during this exchange. After all, we of the double X club need to stick together.

treasure hunt

2007-02-02T15:51:00.000-05:00

So I got up this morning in a somewhat grumpy mood.

Sleep was slow in coming last night. Okay, so I fell asleep at around 4:30 AM, so I guess that is an inaccurate statement. Grumps not withstanding, I was bound and determined to locate my sense of humor under the pile of rubble I so affectionately call home.

I figured I'd try the refrigerator first. I've found many unusual items in there before, and I could kill two birds with one stone as gnomes were climbing all over me in effort to bring forth the inner breakfast chef. Since my humor wasn't to be found, however, the predators had to content themselves with Pop Tarts and cereal.

I looked in the pile of laundry next. I did manage to find a marble, a rubber band, three half eaten tortilla chips, a W-2, and countless legos, but no trace of comic relief.

Off I trundled toward the hall closet. After I managed to dig out from under the assorted coats, scooters, and power tools which avalanched upon opening the door, I did a thorough search. Nope.

The upstairs was beckoning. I stalled - knowing as I do that the upper reaches of this domicile are more likely to contain nuclear waste and biochemical weaponry. Soon, however, I could delay no longer.

No humor. I did locate a pile of mismatched socks. Does that count for anything?

If you happen to find the more lighthearted side of my nature, feel free to leave it in the comments section of the blog. My family would be most appreciative.

things that make you feel old

2007-02-02T00:29:00.000-05:00

N: Hey, mom, you said I couldn't drive your car until after I passed driver's ed, right?

Guess what he did yesterday? I suppose it doesn't help that my birthday hit then too.

My mother brought me a journal she has been writing for me since 1996. My tangents do come naturally. Many pages have scrawled notes up the sides. Other pages are no more than scattered collections of thoughts with no clear beginning or end. Reading it has served as a reminder of just how quickly time passes.

I blinked, and suddenly I have two children who are taller than me. I fell asleep for an hour or so, and my baby turned into an almost 4 year old. I turned my back for just a second...

T drew a picture of us together. I am not quite sure which stick figure is which, but we are holding hands.

T: And guess what, Mommy? (lowering voice to a whisper) We kissed each other!