blog time

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.

eighteen days

Just eighteen days…

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

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

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

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

Eighteen.

reaching

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you.

leaves

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.

always saying sorry

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…

web weavers

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.

two days

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.

in the secret....

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.

blind faith

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.

watch out for that chasm!

There are so many cordless phones in this place that my memory has weakened on some of the advances in technology that have happened during my lifetime. I mean, until five minutes ago, how much time had I recently spent pondering the finer points of the expandable telephone cord? But, as I sat here facing an empty page, feeling the need to write, but having absolutely no clue where to focus my attention, I couldn’t help but study the one corded phone in the house.

Has there ever been a phone cord which didn’t develop slinky-like kinks after extended use? The DNA perfection of the coils is marred by two simple curves flowing in the wrong direction.

When I was a child, we weren’t even allowed to own our phone; we had to rent it monthly from the telephone company. As a pre-teen in a house with three females, we had a 40 foot long cord on our kitchen phone. We were spoiled by the ability to wander the house while on the phone. I can clearly picture balancing the receiver on the stair railing while switching to the upstairs phone. Occasionally, my best friend and I would play a game in which the object was to hang up the downstairs receiver and race to the upstairs one before the connection was lost. Sometimes we made it, sometimes we didn’t. Now, I am so spoiled, I won’t usually answer the office phone because the reality of being anchored to the desk suddenly reminds me of everything I need to be doing in another room.

I always wanted a princess phone when I was younger. Nowadays, mentioning a princess phone probably brings forth images of a Disney-themed masterpiece in cheap plastic. In my youth, it was a fancy dial phone of elaborate design. Instead, we had a standard olive green (it was the seventies, after all). Our first touch tone was mustard yellow – a status symbol of moving up in the world – it took so little then.

The mustard yellow phone of elongated cord could be found attached to my ear as I pranced through the living room dusting to the strains of Mozart’s 40th. It was during those years that, proud of my well-learned telephone etiquette, I loved calling my mother at work, just so I could ask for her by first and last name. The phone was like the computer is now, a barrier between me and the listener which obscured my paralyzing shyness. For a period in high school, drama would become that tool.

Now, I examine that phone knowing that tomorrow I must make a call. I wonder just when I started being afraid. I dissect my psyche to search for clues to what brought it about. I come up empty.

All I know is that my ankle is much less swollen, and I am trying to talk myself out of having to make the call. Those coils make really cool patterns on the curtain...

easing the hecticity

Like my new word? I made it up just for you.

By some strange alignment of good fortunes, N doesn't have to work today, and there is a pretty good chance of thunderstorms this evening (translated: possibility of no football). So here it is 8:30 AM, and everyone but me is still in bed. Do I feel guilty for letting the older ones sleep in and start school late on the second day? You bet. Is it worth it? Yes. Introverts need their solitude from time to time.

There are a million things I could be doing with my unexpected free time. Housework and school preperation come to mind most readily. Of course, if I actually did those things, I might tarnish my near perfect reputation for procrastination. We couldn't have that, could we?

So instead, I sit and type to myself knowing full well that at any moment the dynamics of the atmosphere will go through a severe change as little ones wander from above and begin their supplications. In these quiet moments, I remember anew how grateful I am for each and every one of them. I find the strength to carry me through the bickering and battles to come.

For this moment of peace, I am thankful.

dog ears and taxi days

We picked the dog up from the vet the day we got back. He didn't seem as excited to see us as I expected him to be. It took me a day and a half to realize he wasn't wagging his tail. My best guess is that our excitable dog wagged his tail exuberantly into some hard surface. He whimpered when I picked it up yesterday. Half-wag has returned today, so I am not too worried. There is a vent attached, though.

The whole reason we boarded the dog with the vet is because he has medical issues. We had also noticed him shaking his ears a lot in the week before we left, and asked the doc to take a look at them. Well, he has been shaking his head even worse since we got home, so the dh called the vet today. It seems doggy dearest has impacted ear wax. The vet told us to put mineral oil in his ears and massage them. I just have two questions. First, why didn't they simply tell us this when we picked him up? Second, if the dog had impacted wax, and they had him for a week, why didn't they just try to treat him while he was there? grrrrr

Yes, I am aware that I am quite boring this evening. That's what turning into a morning person does to me. I lose all creativity and spark. Okay, not always true, but it's as good an excuse as any other.

Today was the first day back to school for us. Yes, I know it is late, but homeschooling gives us that option. It was a CRAZY hectic day. From the looks of things, the whole year is going to be almost as crazy as this day, too. My schedule looked something like this:

7:30 AM start S & N on school
8:00 AM fix breakfast for youngers while doing algebra and geometry
10:15 AM start schooling J & M
11:15 AM set J & M up with some independent work so that I can take N to work
11:55 AM continue J, work through pre-algebra with M
12:30 PM finish J, assign reading for science and math (M) that can be done in car on way to homeschooler's lunch with youth pastor (1 day notice)
2:20 PM return home and begin schooling T (first day of kindergarten, wow)
3:35 PM finish with T and realize I was supposed to pick N up from work 5 minutes ago
4:00 PM return from drive, begin fixing dinner
5:00 PM dinner for S,M,J,T & R
5:50 PM leave for football practice (after setting out dinner for N and dh)
8:55 PM return home and put kids to bed - bathless
10:00 PM begin preparing lessons for tomorrow, but get side-tracked by computer
1:00 AM realize lack of sleep from computer addiction bound to make for a less than perfect Tuesday

I'm guessing my creativity may be in hiding for some time. I hope it comes out to play from time to time. I type much more slowly when I'm dull.

vrooooom

There was a time when I ran free over the sand and played in sea water deeper than my waist. Now, I stand and watch my progeny, trying so hard not to let the fear show on my face when they venture further than ankle deep.

There was a day when I could swim and frolic without worrying which saggy body part was hanging out in some crazy direction.

There were glimpses of those days over the past week. Little fragments peeked through between the cracks of responsibility’s veneer.

Like flying my jacket in the wind and imagining where it would take me. Like sneaking out for a donut at 6 AM with my second born. Like stopping to listen to the street musician, even when no one else did. Like talking to a cyclist about the laurel and rocks, the newly changing leaves of northwestern Pennsylvania while taking out the trash.

But all in all, it’s good to be home.

not guilty by reason of insanity

I got really angry yesterday. I am not a stranger to anger; I keep an unlimited supply just to the left of the canned tomato puree in the back of the pantry – just out of arm’s reach. I am usually somewhat good at leaving most of it there.

Yesterday, I was running late for football practice. I had all three football playing kids because the dh was late getting home from work. It was decided at the last minute that he and the other kids would stay at home. This didn’t bother me. I did start to get a trifle unsettled when we started with the shoe issues, uniforms scarcities, and realizations of forgotten drinks for the kids. That trifle started to grow when I looked at the clock and was swiftly kicked by the “OMGoodness, we should have left 5 minutes ago” bug. Still, I was merely flustered, perhaps a little more vehemently rattled than called for in the situation, but my anger jug was safely tucked away – until I walked out the front door.

Primary elections are next Tuesday in my neck of the woods. As a result, all of the local candidates can be found (as opposed to after election when you need three bloodhounds, an FBI agent, a psychic, and an earth magnet to dig one up). Coming toward me with pamphlet extended as I neared my car was just such a candidate. I waved him off as I rushed toward the car with a cheerful, “Sorry, not now, I’m really in a hurry.” I scurried past him to the driver’s side, inserted the key, and turned the ignition. The kids put the windows down simultaneously (we’re good like that). This man reached his arm inside the car, handed S the pamphlet, and started talking about his platform within three seconds of that window being opened.

I am not normally confrontational, and I had no idea I was capable of teleporting objects, but I must be. That anger jar was in my hands and cracked open faster than you can say, “Please don’t squeeze the Charmin.” I looked at this man I did not know, glanced at the pamphlet (thereby realizing he was the candidate and not just someone on the door-to-door committee), and let loose the following admonition:

“You are just plain rude. I told you I was in a hurry. You completely disregarded me and have gone beyond the boundaries of correctness. That is certainly no way to get elected!” at which point I put the car in drive. I would have pulled out then, but the previously clear street was now teeming with other cars racing the half block to the red light. By the time we did get to pull away, I had to sit through the traffic light three times, and it was one minute before the boys were scheduled to be on the field.

As is the way with these things, it doesn’t sound anywhere near as explosive in print. So many things depend on tone and body language. Perhaps it would help if I explained that my tone could have frozen a pool of magma as deep as the trenches of the Atlantic.

Afterward, I felt good. I felt like I had actually gotten up the courage to express righteous anger. I felt powerful and enabled. I felt like singing Helen Reddy.

Then I thought about it.

Thinking is a dangerous thing for someone like me. I have this horribly irritating tendency to start turning things around and looking at them from other perspectives. It suddenly occurred to me that this candidate might have mistaken the opening window as an invitation to continue his spiel.

From “I am Woman!” to “I Shot the Sheriff” with the speed of a CD laser.

Then came the brooding.

How often do I do that? With what kind of frequency do I fly off the handle with seemingly righteous indignation without stopping to look at the other person’s point of view? A candidate was walking down the street. He was cheered to see a possible vote. He came forward with his best candidate smile and met a madwoman intent only on inflicting rapid-fire condemnation.

There is such a slight difference between Jesus’ furious overturning of money lenders’ tables in the temple court and Peter’s sword-drawn fury as he severed the ear of the guard – the difference of seeing the whole picture and acting in a manner which seems right at the time.

If I insist on keeping that anger jar in the closet instead of turning it over to the authority of God’s wisdom, how do I ever expect to make the proper choice?

avoiding the inevitable

I am supposed to be making a “to do” list right now. I haven’t even started making the preparations for our little trip. Granted, much of it I cannot do until the last minute because we are surprising the kids. I get a kick out of that. This is only the second real vacation we have taken since having kids (by real, I mean longer than two days). The last time, we didn’t tell them anything until we got to the ocean. We’re hoping to pull it off again this time, but they might get a little suspicious.

Basically, at present, the plan is that the dh will take all of the kids to football tomorrow when S needs to be there. They have to arrive two hours before the game. I will stay home and stealthily gather things from their rooms which I will secrete in the garage until we pack the car (while keeping them busy elsewhere). If all goes as planned, we will stick them all in the car Sunday morning and venture off. They will know it is a long journey by the presence of the portable DVD player. They will attempt to guess the destination the entire time. The dh and I will play many games of How to Avoid Answering a Direct Question Without Giving Away Any Information.

This is all provided I can complete my “to do” list which, oh yeah, I haven’t written. Instead, I plan to write an uberlong post which will keep all of my faithful friends occupied for six days (ha). This would likely be much simpler if I had the writing skills of a best-selling novelist instead of those stolen from a three paragraph essay writer.

Still, provided I can wake up enough to think in the next twenty minutes or so, I do plan to at least post something else. This is, of course, why I am avoiding the list. The surest way to get this insomniac to fall asleep is to make her start thinking of everything productive she should be doing.

security measures

How's this for ridiculous? I am actually thinking of turning off the word verification because I am having trouble passing that little, "Are you a human being?" test myself. Every time I want to respond to a comment, I find myself staring at those letters and thinking, "I used to know how to read. Really." Perhaps I am really just a computer. Nope, failed that one - too emotional and make far too many mistakes.

Ah, I shall leave it on for now and blame the whole thing on exhaustion and disorganization. Maybe my brain will fall back into my head while I am sleeping tonight.

rabbit teeth

I have determined that I am going to write something in this blog. There is a problem with my master plan. I have absolutely nothing in my head other than random snippets like the following:

I had a dream this morning that I was sitting poolside with the two h's and the n watching Pluto the dog balance on a boogie board with a video camera. (This thought is particularly disturbing since I had no such dream).

Why didn't the dh hook up the means for downloading pics from the camera, and where is the stupid part so that I can do it myself?

I really should write an open letter blog complaining about doctors.

How am I going to make dinner tomorrow night when I need to be picking N up from work exactly at the time I should be preparing it if we are to make it to football?

Will the urge to type become so overwhelming on our trip next week that I will sneak into my child's room after everyone is snoozing to borrow his laptop?

Will my brain actually spawn something resembling creative thought before all is said and done?

And as these thoughts churn around in my head, I suddenly have to shout, "Run away! Run away!" for staring down at me is a killer rabbit with big pointy teeth.

procrastination

I have the potential for a big old post brewing in me that may or may not make its way out, but for now, I am tired, my ankle is swollen, and I have just finished celebrating my 17th wedding anniversary. So let me just say this:

Laughter still comes easily.

Children can break your heart and mend it in a second (a.k.a. talking to your three year old on the phone from the movie theater).

Yes, Virginia, someone else CAN administer the dog's seizure pills.

Lumpy couches with familiar soft spots are sometimes a heck of a lot more comfortable than the top-of-the line new model (which philosophy goes well with 17 year marriages too).

If you forget to call your mother and tell her that football is cancelled until an hour before the game, and she is so disappointed about missing a movie with her friends because you called so late that she forgets it is your anniversary, you have six kids, and it might have been wise for her to call you (since you are forgetful); then going out to the very movie she missed can be both extremely pleasing in a sadistic way, and horribly guilt inducing. {gotta love the grammar in that one}

Those little gadgets for the top of two-liter soda bottles called the "pump and pour" really do keep the dang thing from going flat.

Not having to cook once for an entire day is possibly the best anniversary present I have ever been given.

Having band-aids on the index finger and removing the backing from label stickers do not go well together.

I still like walking in the rain.

written in exile

ode to an unbloggable blog

I give up

Here I sit, ousted from my own blog by the almighty power of the internet security system. We have had this installed for our kids’ benefit on their computers, but my husband goes through periodic fits of installing it on ours. I want to like this program. It does block a lot of the unsolicited material which bombards you when you open an otherwise harmless website, but there is always a downside. In past incarnations, I have accustomed myself to losing the use of google image searches (which makes identifying a particular rash a tad difficult). I have lost the ability to see half of the pictures when other people post them. Again, this is livable. I can work out the gist of the thing from what I do see. But this time, I am beyond my tolerance level.

BSafe has decided to block me from reading comments on any blog. It has blocked me from any page in which I can log on. So, while I am perfectly capable of reading my blog or any other (including those with what would be deemed offensive language), I cannot post. Apparently, I need to be protected from myself. Lord knows what I might type if given the opportunity to set my fingers to the keyboard. Oh wait. I am typing those words now. So, I guess it is simply protecting the rest of you from having to read it!

The dear husband, when asked, did apparently submit a request for un-blockage, but I have very little faith in the system. And as the trend would go, I suddenly have a million thoughts.

Maybe BSafe got a look at my untidy house and figured I needed a little push in the cleaning direction. Oh how misguided this effort to save me from myself. I am obsessive. I can find anything to distract me from what I really should be doing – including the overwhelming guilt from being unable to conquer the grime. The waves of depression from that one are good for at least two days’ procrastination. After all, there’s nothing like the knowledge that I can spend hours scrubbing away only to turn around and find no evidence that I have done a single thing.

Ah well, I guess it’s back to the pile of papers I am trying to sort. I tried to talk myself out of it. I really did.





ooh-ooh ah-ah p.u.

Recently, I have been running across precious quotes made by children. All parents feel suddenly warm and fuzzy, captivated, or amused by the fact that “kids say the darndest things.” I am not immune. But the recent bouts of kid-isms which have given me a jolt are from two distinct categories. Both require set-up.

Imagine if you will Princess Pink One in all her splendour - perched upon a pile of pillows in the most comfortable seat in the house, hugging her blankie tightly. From this position, she is perfectly poised to bark orders out to anyone passing.

“Happen my juice?”

“My have cookie!”

“Not dat! Want my baby show!”

This is a daily occurrence. I interject, of course, with small instructional words in an attempt to teach politeness or, perchance, with refusal (heaven forbid), so the child might come to understand that she is not the center of the world.

On such a day, when the demands and requests had been flying past any ear within range, I happened to walk by and get an insistent dose of, “Mo-o-o-o-o-o-m, ooh-ooh ah-ah p.u.” And I just had to laugh (behind her back) as her mien became that of a poor little rich girl directing her maid, “And by the way, my stuffed monkey stinks. Take it away.”

It’s one of those you had to be there moments.

kidism part two:

The littles enjoy going in N’s room and “borrowing” his stuff. This trend is so common that we had to put a latch on the top corner of the door to lock them out. Every once in awhile, that door is inadvertently left unbolted. Like yesterday. So, I had to laugh when I went up to say my goodnights last night, and I saw the sign N had written that was hanging on his door.

_____________________

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^
“You must be at least this tall to enter.
If you do not meet the designated height requirement,
a rabid monkey with a sledge hammer will attack you.”


kidism part three:

And as I typed this:

N: Mom we need to buy J (mumble mumble)

Mom: Buy him what?

N: Bigger ears. (pause) You should think of investing in some too.

fits of creativity

I can get out about a paragraph, bringing myself right to the point where the climax or punchline should be reached - then fizzle. You know those parties where your husband fills so many balloons with helium that the hanging strings actually obscure the view across the room? You know the resultant balloon hissing madness when six kids get to those balloons right before the party starts? That's kind of how my blog writing is going right now.

I can't even seem to hold my own interest for more than a few minutes, so how can I expect to write anything with humor or depth?

Should I continue the ankle saga? Should I discuss the space-age miracle foam mattress pad which is at least 6 inches narrower than the bed (and the resultant comedy)? Should I get out some of the rare bits of passion concerning politics and religion (shhhh, don't mention the war)?

When I was a child, I ran freely across the snow-covered playground. I didn't see the ice under the surface. I didn't expect to come crashing into the seesaw, propelling it downward, thus lacerating my chin and causing me to bite the tip off my tongue. Mouths bleed a lot.

Creatively speaking, I keep hitting ice patches. Doors are opening inside me because, for so long, I have not allowed myself to touch the deeper insides. It excites me a little to feel, but it scares me too. I don't just feel for me.

Whirlpool

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.

(1994)