To love them toward the horizon

Every morning they measure taller, yet no amount of height minifies this urge to reach and clutch with both hands, to shout "careful" when they dart ahead even by an inch.

It is impulse, reflex, the tick of a lovesick mother.

But I have been careful my whole life, perhaps too careful, and do I want them to dwell in this chest-tight caution, or do I want them to move beyond me with open lungs and palms? Would I ask them to settle for a safe ceiling when infinite sky waits just outside these walls?

I don't yet know how to let go, how to stop my mouth from saying "slow down, you might fall", how to model something other than playing it safe. I don't yet know how to love them toward the horizon.

But I know I must learn.



Linking up with Emily today for Imperfect Prose.

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In Which I Finally Have a Worthy Song Stuck in my Head

We rattle our cart from one end of the big box store (the place of which I do not speak) to the other in search of dog food. We pass the aisle of heavily promoted junk (the aisle upon which we dare not look), and a backpack catches my little girl's eye. "Look at dat pink 'parkly one!" she squeals. And before I can change the subject, her older brother interjects, "Oh, that's Hannah Montana. She's a singer on TV."

"Where did you hear about Hannah Montana?" I raise an eyebrow, ready to blame Disney on-demand for cross promoting to preschoolers.  (Never mind that my oldest is nearly two years past preschool. Denial, much?)

"At school. All the girls like her and sing her songs and stuff. I don't know why."

Neither do I. But I catch myself, tell myself to squash the judgy, holier-parent-than-thou monologue. After all, I am shopping at Walmart the big box store of which we do not speak. Not exactly an appropriate setting in which to look down upon society and tout my superior ways of simple and intentional living and parenting.

I pick over the slim choices for senior kibble while the kids wave their arms and shout for me to come see the hermit crab they spotted in the fish tank.

Am I seriously shopping at a store that sells hermit crabs, Hannah Montana back-packs and gluten-free Panda Puffs?

On the way to piano lessons, it still feels out of nowhere when Caed announces, "Morgan and Sophie went to a Hannah Montana concert. And Lydia even watched a Lady Gaga concert."

"Lady Gaga? What?"

"Yeah. What's Lady Gaga anyway? Is she a singer?"

I stumble over how to explain Lady Gaga to a six year old, and trip over words to end up saying very little. Yes, she's a singer. But most of her music isn't appropriate for kids--maybe not even for grown-ups. Just not the sort of words and messages we want to put in our ears and get in our heads.... yadda yadda yadda. 

Then the rest of the afternoon, I work awfully hard to get "Telephone" out of my head. (Sorry I cannot hear you / I'm kinda busy / k-kinda busy). The words hypocrite and double standard come to mind more than once as well.

At dinner, I relay to Larry the hard-to-believe claim that one of Caed's classmates watched a Lady Gaga concert. (Given Caed has come home saying Jimmy saw two real leprechauns in his yard and Joey has gone to Chuck E Cheese like, 500 times, and he's only 7!, I am wise enough to doubt the veracity of everything Caed reports.)

But it sparks good conversation, a chance to define what is meant by "pop music" and "pop culture". Larry explains that these shock artists and boy bands and teen idols will come and go and be forgotten (New Kids on the Block, anyone?), but there is art out there--beautiful, gorgeous art for the ears--that stands the test of time.

He googles Aaron Copland, and plays this piece for the kids.



"What does the music sound like to you? How does it make you feel?" Larry asks a minute or so into the piece.

"Like skipping around and butterflies and, like trees and baby birds." Caed responds.

"Like growing and green," I add, my eyes meeting those of our impromptu music teacher.

And in those moments, we forget all about Lady Gaga and gaudy pink backpacks and all the junk those around us try to pass off as art.  Sorry, Lady G, we cannot hear you--we're kinda busy.

We wave our arms like branches of trees and wands of conductors. The kids unwrap candy from their Easter stash and listen to the ageless art as the lemon drops melt sour, then sweet. It is here at this cluttered mess of a table that I feel like a commoner turned queen, like the dishes could wait for weeks, like there is finally a worthy melody stuck in my head. 

It is here that my heart sings.


*The names of the classmates have been changed to protect the innocent. :-)

::
Can you trust me when I say this isn't to bash Lady Gaga or pop culture or parents who allow more of it in their kids lives than I do in mine? And by no means do I plan on switching my running soundtrack on Pandora radio from Black Eyed Peas to Chopin.

I wrote this simply so I wouldn't forget what a sweet gift I found at the dinner table last night. I wrote this to remind myself to play a bit more of Beethoven and a bit less of Beyonce. I wrote this to encourage myself--and you--to teach our children the meaning of ageless art, to introduce them to the sort of beauty that far outshines the glitter of a thousand Hannah Montana backpacks.

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The Hours are Honest

There is not going to be time for it all, not even close. So I have to choose, and wisely. And the hours are honest. The minutes pile up around the things I care most about.  I cannot truthfully say to myself I am enthralled with literature when my minute piles congregate around watching hockey play-offs while skimming blogs. You know, just as an example.

Of course there are the things I must do--not for the love but the responsibility. The minutes pile around laundry as high as the laundry itself, and that by no means proves I value laundry above all else.

But what do I choose when I have a choice? What do I do with the hour from 5 to 6 a.m., once the coffee is made and the husband is kissed goodbye? What do I do when two glorious hours of freedom greet me on my way out of the preschool door?

I know the answers, and I don't like them.

I used to say, back in the corporate day, that my job was incompatible with who I was, who I wanted to be. I cited the contrast between my heart to serve and love the least of these with my role to manage risk and resources so a soulless company could make money. I promised myself (oh the lies I told myself!) that when that next stage came--perhaps in the leaving work to raise a young family stage--I would read and study and pray and serve and write and live the gospel.


But I have broken that promise.

I'm not saying it's wrong for me to spend several hours a week running or reading fluff or watching T.V or relearning the piano or eating cheetos while tracking brown bears. (Okay, that last one might not be wrong, but it's definitely not wise.)


I'm just saying that the way I spend my life--what I choose when I have a choice--starting with the minutes, followed by the hours, flowing into days, adding up to months and years and lifetime--that this reveals what I truly value.

And I don't want to be 72 years old before I realize there is no such thing as must-see TV, that the people around the table are vastly more important than the ones on the page, that I could run forever and get nowhere.

::

What do you say you value? Does it match what you do with your "free" time (assuming you have even one drop of it)? What do you choose when you have a choice?

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The kicking and screaming places

There are the places
you move to for adventure's sake,
where you first circle Dupont
(without ending up in Maryland),
and that make-it-here-make-it-anywhere
feeling slips like a sash
over your shoulder.

There are the places
you go for a change in pace,  in scenery,
like when the kids are little and
you're dying for a backyard
or a short commute--
or both--if you can even imagine.

And then there are the places,
the places you only go
because your story takes you there.
I call these
the kicking and screaming places.

I can't come out and call Ohio
a kicking and screaming place.
It's not (not entirely).
But in comparison, like when I
wake up in Alexandria on vacation
and wonder why it's not home anymore,
and then get excited about going home,
but only because I've momentarily
pictured the wrong house,
the one I moved from months ago,
when I wince disappointed,
well, then it feels--
if only by comparison--
like a kicking and screaming place.

And I wonder when I am ever
going to feel like home is home,
actually, and not just a place where we keep the furniture
and do the laundry,
when I am ever
going to look down at my feet
and see them-
not itching or wriggling
or twitching or kicking every which way-
but stayed,
steady,
planted.

::

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Limbo

Limbo. It hurls me up in the air like a Marmaduke falloon in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, a rope at each paw, suspended over real life. Put me down. Just put me down. I want to sink into something certain, things like ground and gravity.

Limbo sits in the chair next to us while we wait on a pet scan, a job offer, an acceptance letter, a proposal or maybe just a second date. When will the doctor call? Where we will live next year? Will mom even make it to see her grandson born? When will our soldier come home? And whatever will we do with ourselves in between?

So we go on making cupcakes on birthdays, taking garbage cans to the curb on trash day. We go on meeting the school bus and the deadlines. We eat three meals a day and endless snacks, then go on trying to jog it off. But most of time, it feels like filler. This life. Just filler. These are the packing peanuts, we think, nothing but static-ridden, weightless styrofoam. But there should be something more in this box, a present, something gorgeous and fragile, a crystal vase, perhaps. Move aside, packing peanuts. I'm trying to find the real thing.

When does the real life start? It starts, we assume, when the limbo stops, when we hold the crystal vase in hand. When the cancer is gone or the promotion goes through or the house sells. When the parade is finally over and we sink paws to the ground for what feels like the first time.

But we're missing it, aren't we? Life is in the limbo, the parade, the packing peanuts, the chemo-therapy. And we're missing it.

::

In the limbo-uncertainty scale of things, the days I'm in now wouldn't register very high, not in comparison to the days I've lived before. So now is probably as good a time as any to figure out how I might enjoy the parade while 100 feet in the air, the next time Thanksgiving and fierce uncertainty roll around.

My best friend's sister has cancer. Limbo and chemo. It's not even remotely fair. But do you know what she did the other day? She ran 10 miles. Because the Boston Marathon is only four months away, and it's going to take more than cancer to keep her off the starting line.

She's showing up, owning what life looks like now, not wasting a difficult today on the mirage of an easier tomorrow. I want to be like her when I grow up, to keep my eyes open for the whole parade, even when the heights are dizzying.

I wonder if one way to deal with limbo is to trade acute awareness of what we don't know yet with acute awareness of what's real and right in front of us. For example, I can pull my daughter and a moment close to my chest, laugh when she giggles and says I'm "quishing" her. I can straighten my back, stand like I'm hanging from a string, listen closely to what my senses have to say. I can notice how chili smells strikingly close to body odor. (It must be the cumin?) And how when icicles hover together, they become a cross between percussion and strings, making frozen music. And I can drink with a straw just so I can clink the ice and hear the chaos in whatever it is I'm drinking.

Taking the details in with fervor, sinking into the sweet ordinary moments next to the ones I love. It's not like running a marathon while battling cancer. But I think it's a start.

::

Are you in the middle of transition, struggling with uncertainty, fear of the unknown, limbo? What things, what people, what moments are real and right in front of you? What helps you to show up, to own your life, in spite of the limbo?

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The Curse of Abundance

I've been writing here about baseball games and birthdays, orchards and hayrides, the bubbling happy surface, the rising top of a freshly poured soda. It's as real and sweet and true as the first sip on thirsty lips, but it isn't all there is.

Because deeper, in the pit of stomach, I am rifled with melancholy, raw and sporadically terrified.

A couple days ago, during Caed's birthday party, Larry injured his hand. There was enough blood to make my heart race, enough to warrant a visit to urgent care. Even after I knew he would be fine--that the only thing wrecked were his chances to scrub in on trauma surgeries this week--even then, I could not stop the inward screaming.

On the outside, at the top of the glass, I held it together. I served the cake and snapped pictures and smiled, and truthfully, thoroughly enjoyed the party with our family. But underneath, layered so deep, I felt it. Like the bass clef of a song--the part that gives depth to the melody, and you notice it when it's not there, but you still never really hear it, not on its own. And that bass has been growing louder for the past two weeks, and when I tune in, it's loud, so loud, I'm not sure I recognize the song anymore. It sounds nothing like the happy song we've been singing.

::

I remember, after my dearest friend lost her husband when their son was 11 weeks old,
we looked at pictures from the day her sweet boy was born. And she said, "Those were the happiest days of my life. I had everything, and I didn't know it." She's probably forgotten those words now six years past, but they still haunt me.

I go to the fall festival, and I feel as though I'm watching myself from the top of the tree house, seeing myself traipse through the corn maize, pulling Dani on my lap for a hayride, snapping pictures of slides and smiles. And I shout to the faraway me, "Please know. Know that you have everything, that these are the happiest days of your life."

And I see this fragile perfection, when love is abundant and these treasured lives are healthy and carefree, when their faces beam innocent and trusting, when their father too, is here to see them grow, to sing harmony in this song. Then I see how, in a heartbeat, in just one note, we could all screech and smash into terror and loss and grief and heartbreak. And it makes me want to cry, to fall to pieces in front of the kettle corn stand.

I feel this strange responsibility, having borne witness to the pain that dearest friends have lived, are living. Whether it is the loss of a husband or never having had one at all, the loss of a child or the wishing for one, I see them struggle, and I think that the least I can do is to be immensely grateful. No complaining about how hard marriage is. No jokes about how I can't wait for the kids to be in school all day. No. It's my strange responsibility to be mindful of how blessed this life has been thus far, how I have everything, abundance.

::

But I think perhaps I have taken this mindfulness too far, and I've let my mind wander from the beauty of the moments here and now to the thought of how very much there is to lose. Is this the curse of abundance?

I know the Christian cliche, how we talk of all of it coming from and belonging to God, how He gives and takes away, how deepest joy is found in the morning He makes, these bright mornings coming so often on the heels of a sorrowful night. I believe all this, and then some. But in the gut of where I live right now, that raw and momentarily terrifying place, I can't tie this neatly up. I don't even want to try to tie this neatly up. I just want to come clean, to name the feelings and to confess how very little I know, especially when it comes to the answers.

This one thing I do know, though. These are the happiest days of my life.

::

Linked the lovely Madeline Bea's Sunday Creative prompt: Abundance.

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On Vulnerability

Sometimes I wish that we could put on personalities like tank tops, wear them like tee shirts, throw them in the wash when they started to stink. But even then, mine would be the kind with instructions to launder inside out, cold, gentle cycle. Because I tend to fray at the edges from the criticism of the suds. And sometimes I bleed color from the constructive agitation.

I am weary of being sensitive, of crying easily, of feeling everything. There was a time when I shut it all off, worked like a robot, developed such thick skin that my heartbeat grew muffled beneath it. But I shed those tough, ugly (albeit durable) layers several years ago on the floor of my old office, the one with a door I could shut and a window I couldn't open. Kevlar no longer hangs in my closet.

Now I am vulnerable, wearing my imperfections like stains down the middle, and I wish for resilience even as I whisper gratitude at the return of emotion.

I have been thinking much about this business of being vulnerable, and maybe it is self-serving to say this. But I believe it takes more courage to love without holding back, to feel without hedging, than it does to live in predominant independence with achievement as the primary measure of value. I lived the latter approach for many years, and in doing so, I insulated myself from the most extreme temperatures of joy and pain. A life at room temperature is really no life at all. (And I have a host of mid-19th century poets who will back me on this.)

Now, I'm not saying we should all aspire to being needy, emotional wrecks. But I do think we (okay, maybe just me) should not be ashamed to revolve our entire life around another, to not be able to imagine the next day without him in it. Is that vulnerable? Yes. But is it weak? I don't think so.

And this courage to be vulnerable is not just about love of another, a spouse, a child, or a friend. The same courage sits also at the foundation of goals that are largely out of reach. It is what bolts dreams down, attempts to frame them into reality, into walls and roof and legitimacy. And it is this same courage that makes us appear foolish to others, to ourselves. Take for instance, after 25 years the love of your life cheats on you. Or an investor laughs in your face when she hears your business pitch. Or your extended family ridicules you for leaving corporate America to start a dairy farm. Whether the yield is joy or pain, elation or disappointment, it almost always begins by locking hands with courage on one side, vulnerability on the other. And by stepping out.

“When we were children, we used to think that when we were grown-up we would no longer be vulnerable. But to grow up is to accept vulnerability... To be alive is to be vulnerable.” - Madeleine L'Engle

What do you think? Does it take more courage to be vulnerable? Is it human nature to try to protect ourselves against the deepest love, the truest life, to settle for something less scary, but also less satisfying? Or is it just me?

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Paralyzed by Possibility

Startled by the sound of the screen door and its unmistakable closing number, "buddumb, bump", I zig-zagged from one room to the other, looking for evidence of an intruder or an escapee. Armed with words of admonition for my three year old NOT to let the dog out without asking, I stepped into the mudroom and saw....

No one.

I peered outside. It was not my three year old boy, nor my six year old dog.

It was my daughter, a few months past one year, barefoot in her polka dotted pajamas, standing seven wobbling steps into the front yard. She teetered in the same spot, as if engaging in a solitary game of freeze tag, grinning ear to ear.

The day was as much an infant as she was. The sun spilled highlights onto her wispy strands as she glanced at me, squinted down the driveway toward the splintered mail post, and looked back at me once more. Then, knowing not her next move, she plopped down, smushing the clover poking through the pavers.

She had fussed for that very freedom nearly every day, clambered incessantly for a chance at independent outdoor exploration. Now she finally had it, and she didn't know what to do with herself.

It can be paralyzing when the possibilities are endless.

::

Up until now, the choosing was easy. The path was narrow, and the forks in the road few. I stumbled into wet career cement in my early 20s and wasted no time becoming a corporate fixture.

The ladder I climbed too quickly for comfort was the bunk bed variety. With each leadership rung, I came closer to the claustrophobic top bunk and further from the carefree, arm-spreading space on the carpet. And there was nary a night when I didn't toss and turn in that teeny space between the ceiling and the sheet, feeling terribly afraid about where I was ending up. This isn't me, I would insist, equally fearful of falling to the floor as I was of staying at the top.

Then came motherhood. This was my chance to shimmy down the rungs without looking like the girl who had climbed her way to the high dive and then chickened out. I took it. I slowed down so fast I felt sick from the motionlessness. I was barely past the shock, still chipping away the cement from my shoes, when a part time consulting opportunity knocked. It was the best of both worlds, and I wouldn't say no. That was nearly three years ago.

Today I scheduled my last billable hour. In two weeks time, I will no longer toggle between career and family. I will officially be a full-time, stay-at-home Mom.

Suddenly I'm standing in the middle of the yard, sharing streaks of sunrise with the daffodils. I cried and clambered for this scene for years; but now that I am here, I am strangely desperate for someone to whisk me back inside to what I know, not because it is better, but because it is familiar.

I have been securely trapped in time constraints for as long as I remember. It seems I always had towering tall, career-oriented excuses to hide behind when the meal was barely edible, or the garden wasn't producing, when I didn't read much more than email or feel curiosity beyond my field.

As that veil of excuses is removed, I see my fears for what they are. I don't know where to start. I don't know how to choose. I'm afraid I'll settle for survival instead of improvement. I'm afraid I'll waste time in little starts and stops instead of finishing one thing strong. I'm afraid I'll get the same mediocre results on the domestic front, even after I step up my effort.

But most of all, I'm paralyzed by the endless possibilities. I've often wished for the privilege to be a stay-at-home mom. So why is it, now that I'm finally standing here in a wide open yard with the morning dew on my cement-free toes, I somehow don't feel ready for it?

Originally published February 18, 2009

::

April will mark one year of being home full-time with my children. Sometimes I feel as though I've never done anything else. Like these babies, who have moved me to places I never thought I'd go, have always been here with me. And even though it's only a chapter, it seems like my entire story. Even more surprising, all of this is a good feeling.

I was worried I wasn't cut out to be a stay-at-home mom. I was afraid I wouldn't enjoy it, and even more afraid of having to admit that to myself. But with almost a year under my apron, those worries have been put to bed. And now, when I lie awake at night, it is not fear, but thankful wonder that keeps me company.

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I'm Still Learning What Not To Wear

The day was soiled before dawn. It started with the stripping of sheets and polka dotted sleepers. The freeing and feeding the dog. Shushing the shaking collars and singing toddlers.

The morning rushed out ahead of me like that dang dog, hurdling over my feet, extending not even the courtesy of a moment to step aside. Sure. Just slide around and remind me that I'm not the alpha.

I am a human doggie door. A shoe courier, the route from the mudroom to the bedroom now an eyes-closed path. A directions dispenser, opening my Pez mouth in the over and over speech. I redress the mattress, collect the trash, check the urine samples (did you really pee in the potty or are you just pretending to get a candy?).

I am anything but alpha.

And to make it worse, today I chose not to believe that it is better to serve. Can't I just serve long enough to be recognized as the mom who does everything around here? Somebody! Look! See how great I am! Tell me you don't know what you'd ever do without me. I'll accept any form of credit. Please, just hand over the card.

So I let the day soak in the soiled attitude. I dressed the hours in wet pajamas and then complained about the stink. It's embarrassing when I step back and see the outfit I wore. Were my inward grumblings really that whiny? That self-centered? That ugly?

Uh huh.

I don't have a quick spray solution. I'm not sure in the practical sense how to overcome the stench of this wasted woe-is-me day, to toss aside the what-was-I-thinking outfit and put on patience, kindness and joy.

But in my closet is the promise of a new morning with new mercies, a fresh start, a new outfit. It's hanging right up front, waiting for me to reach out, pull it down and make a wardrobe change.
At the end of my ugly day, I saw this. Don't you love that orange rock, dressed better than any other? It is covered in life, propping life up from underneath. If the rock had feelings, maybe they would be hurt. "No one sees me beneath this pile of takers," it might say. But the rock would be wrong. Because in serving the tiny bits of life that cling to its every crevice, it has become the most beautiful, the most remarkable rock of all.


This well-dressed rock is the gift I unwrap for Tuesday, a visual reminder to choose joy in service.

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Not Fore! Just One or Two!

"You leave her alone! I know you try to help, but you will only confuse her! I give her the two things she should think about during her swing. More than that, it is just too much. Just too much!" Through her thick French accent, Mary Claire admonished my husband in the sternest golf pro tone her 100 pounds could muster.

She started to walk away, then pirouetted round her pitching wedge and pointed to my well-meaning spouse, "So no talking to her, except to say good job or somezing like zat."

Okay, I thought, smirking at my handsome golfing partner, I'm going to be quoting dear Mary Claire all the live long day. "Remember! No talking! Unless it's to say good jaaah-ahhb!!"

She came over to me once more. "When you are chipping, you must remember these two things..."

I nodded and aligned my stance. Silent hands, weight forward, half swing and...I chipped that bad boy right into the hole! Seriously. ONE SHOT! I believe it's called a hole-in-one, although the fact I was standing only twelve yards away might detract from the sheer awesomeness of my accomplishment. Just a wee bit. Anyway, it was still enough to impress Mary Claire.

"See, see! " she applauded. "You just take one or two things at a time and it comes together. Perfect. Perfect. Just like that!"

While I attribute my golfing triumph more to luck (and ironically, to my husband's contraband advice to adjust my stance) than to Mary Claire's "two things", there is still a good deal of wisdom in her words.

Whether I'm on the green or off the course entirely, I often fall prey to the paralysis of thinking too much. I become easily overwhelmed by my innumerable shortcomings and harmful habits, and I flounder in discouragement, only further impairing my ability to improve.

But, if I focus on one or two areas rather than letting the whole of my inadequacy overwhelm me, I can make progress. While it rarely takes the form of a hole-in-one, the chipping away at the problem areas, stroke by stroke, is effective in moving me toward the person I desire to be.

To use a silly but very real example, I know it annoys my husband to no end when I ask "where ya going?" the moment he shifts his weight on the couch. As pathetic as it is, I've had to employ the vast majority of my brain cells to stop demanding he reveal his intended location at all times.

But here's the heartening part. The more I intentionally focus on one area and succeed (such as keeping my mouth shut when he moseys into the kitchen for a snack), the more that "right way" of doing something sticks and becomes habitual, even second nature. Then I can move on to concentrate on one of the other hundreds thousands of things in my life that need improvement.

So, to paraphrase the great Mary Claire, golf pro extraordinaire, focus on just one or two things at a time and it will come together, stroke by stroke. And that's what works for me!

(At least that's what works for me metaphorically, you know, in life. On the golf course, there might not be anything that works for me.... )

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On Sand Flies & Cigarettes

"When I feel sad, it hurts on my face. And I just can't stop my sad right now!"

-Caed, Age 4, choking back tears upon seeing his Lego creation wrecked twice in ten minutes by his little sister.

****************************************************

I am what one might call a short-term optimist (not to be confused with the eternal kind). I humor Pollyanna as long as possible, until I just can't take another round of the Glad Game. And then I crash and wallow like there is no tomorrow.

Today was a crash and wallow day. I woke up covered in a dusty film of unarticulated angst. The grime on my proverbial lenses obstructed every view of happiness, to the point I saw nothing of it.

When the sun poured through my windows, I sighed at the sight of dust on my dresser.

When my daughter tugged at my covers, I groaned at the forced waking.

The high pitched demands, the crashing of toys, the mundane and noisy chaos overpowered any whispers of gratitude or softly spoken blessings. I just didn't hear the good stuff today. And I most certainly didn't see it.

At the grocery store, I glanced skeptically at the register. "That bag of apples wasn't on sale?" I questioned, knowing they marked the opposite true. "Well I wouldn't have bought them then...No, that's okay, don't worry about it." Just add it to my bill and my list of offenses against the day.

Uggh. I forgot my earth-friendly grocery bags in the car AGAIN. Why can't I ever remember those?

Once to the car, I discovered the bread and potatoes in the same (earth-hating) plastic bag. And now I was as bitter as baking soda, because the bread was overpriced before it was smushed to half its original height.

I returned home. The internet was still down. Considering my state of mind, I wasn't one to judge. But complaining? That I could do. Lucky for the cable company, all circuits were busy, so they dodged an earful from the angry lady holding a grudge about flattened bread, erroneously priced apples and unreliable internet service.

My husband's plan to work at home was foiled by our no-speed cable line. The hope I'd been leaning on all day--a chance to run away from home during nap time, to clear my head and unleash my temper on the pavement--it disappeared as he headed out to the hospital.

I found myself cooped up, unreasonably angry, inexplicably impatient and heavy hearted.

A few weeks ago, I ran at the beach. Walking up the trail back to the parking lot, I passed a pile of seaweed, swarming with sand flies and littered with cigarette butts. It was the last image I stored from the otherwise glorious morning by the ocean.

I remembered that picture today. Because today I was sitting in that pile of seaweed, among the sand flies and cigarettes, in classic Debbie Downer fashion. There was beauty everywhere but in my pile of pity.

I knew I needed to stand up to see the ocean, to step away from the sand flies, to look further than an inch past my nose. So I went in search of stories being told this week by the Compassion bloggers in India. I read Robin's heart breaking words and found tears of a legitimate cause to cry.

I'm not entirely out of the woods, or the seaweed pile, if you will. As much as I want to wrap this post up in freshly ironed platitudes, I must admit my heart is still heavy and my patience still low.

I guess sometimes we just "can't stop the sad". Whether it's about a toppled tower of legos, a flustered day of fatigue and rumpled, impertinent expectations, or a soul crushing poverty stretching thousands of miles wide and millions of lives deep.

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The Way They See It

She called it a cool breeze.

He called it a harsh wind.

She was lying in the sun.

He was running in the rain.

They were both right.

And yet they both shook their heads in disgust at the other.

How can she be so naive?

How can he be so negative?

It's simple.

When we aren't in the same place, we don't see it the same way.

It's all about perspective.

I often wish I could share the perspective of those I love.

I wish I could know, really know, what it's like and how it feels to wear my husband's white coat as he plods through 25 days straight at work, constantly chasing and never catching up.

I wish I could know, really know, what my friend means and how she feels when she says she doesn't--she just can't--believe anymore.

I wish I could go there, all of me, to the place my sister got lost, and sit with her there for a while in her postpartum despondency. To keep her company in the dark until the worst is over. And to not obsess over where the light switch might be.

I wish I could feel, like it was my own heart in my throat, when my son chokes back tears and gives up on what seems to me like the smallest and silliest task. He's done it before. Why can't he do it now? I want to understand how overwhelmed he must feel instead of fixating on my frustration.

It's not that I want to feel their pain because I don't have enough of my own. I just want to understand, to be in the same place long enough to say, "Oh, I see it too!". Because I love them. Because I want to share in life where they are living it, to share their perspective. So they aren't so lonely. So we're not so far apart.

I'm stubborn and strong willed and selfish enough that I haven't the slightest worry of actually losing myself in the pursuit of another perspective. I don't worry about being a doormat so much as I worry about being on the other side of the door, unavailable, unyielding, without empathy.

So I sit here in the cool breeze and harsh wind, and I pray for grace, the kind so freely poured on me by the One who is able to perfectly empathize with my weakness. I ask for extra helpings of grace to be heaped upon my plate, and for the wisdom not to hoard it.

I want to gather up the grace in my arms like a clean load of laundry, piled so high I can barely see beyond it. And I want to spread it out and sort through it, and divide it among the people I love. So that even when I can't see life the same way they do, I can be there, on the right side of the door, with something to offer.

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Friday Funnies - Assessing your Kindergarten Readiness

Last night I attended a Kindergarten information session. Or maybe it was a Neurotic Parents of First Child Going to Kindergarten Un-Anonymous meeting. Same Difference.

All the talk these days is about whether our children are equipped and ready to start school, but if you ask me, we are totally missing the point. The question is really about whether I AM READY. And the answer is NO I AM MOST CERTAINLY NOT! (Sorry for the yelling, but I just can't sugar coat this, people).

If you are still grappling with the question of whether you could possibly send your baby off to Kindergarten come September, I've devised a few signs to help you determine your readiness. If you see yourself in more than two of these statements, you need to think long and hard before putting your child on a bus this fall.

1) When the prospective K-5 teacher refers to the kids in her class as "my children", you can barely restrain yourself from tossing one of those mini purple chairs across the room at her, Jerry Springer style. But you are better than that, so you maturely handle the situation by waiting until you get home to file a restraining order against that baby snatcher disguised as Ms. Literacy Goodytwoshoes.

2) You think that having another baby would solve everything. Because then maybe you could blame your neurosis about losing your firstborn to Kindergarten on the raging hormones and sleep deprivation brought on by your newest addition.

3) This would also help in resisting the urge to kiss random babies' foreheads in the grocery store. If you had a real baby of your own, and not just a four year old that you are convinced is still an infant, then you wouldn't have to traumatize the poor first time mother carting a real five-week old, sweet-smelling baby through the canned goods aisle. And yes, this is the same mother, who thanks to your uninvited forehead smooching, will be forced to resort to the same tactics you pulled on the Kindergarten teacher (hopefully minus the chair and/or canned creamed corn throwing).

4) You get nostalgic when you see a box of Swaddlers. Let's face it--pining over the diaper stage is a sign of some serious regression on your part. It's wrong on so many levels.

5) You are convinced that the lady driving that big yellow vehicle up and down the street EVERY weekday at the SAME time is up to no good. You are appalled that the police won't take you seriously when you voice your suspicions about the stalking school bus.

6) You are reduced to a blubbering mess whenever you catch even a glimpse of a Lightning McQueen lunchbox. And Lord have mercy if you somehow wind up in the JC Penney Back-to-School section. Emergency medical assistance will probably be required at that point.

It's become painfully obvious to me that Time is at the wheel, in spite of a serious speeding problem and multiple citations, and no matter what this frightened, back-seat driver mama says, it won't slow down. Not for me, not for anybody.

Case in point, my mom swears it was only yesterday that she took this picture of me and my sister in our favorite hiding spot.

I guess I've finally joined Mom in the delusional and fruitless battle against Time, because if that happened just yesterday, then how do you explain how this picture was ALSO taken yesterday?

So tell me people, are you ready for Kindergarten? Are there more readiness assessment signs that I forgot? Any ideas on how to keep the little people little just a little longer?

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Paralyzed by Possibility

Startled by the sound of the screen door and its unmistakable closing number, "buddumb, bump", I zig-zagged from one room to the other, looking for evidence of an intruder or an escapee. Armed with words of admonition for my three year old NOT to let the dog out without asking, I stepped into the mudroom and saw....

No one.

I peered outside. It was not the three year old boy. It was not the six year old dog.

It was my daughter, a few months past one year, barefoot in her polka dotted pajamas, standing seven wobbling steps into the front yard. She teetered in the same spot, as if engaging in a solitary game of freeze tag, grinning ear to ear.

The day was as much an infant as she was. The morning sun spilled highlights onto her wispy brown hair as she glanced at me, squinted down the driveway toward the splintered mail post, and looked back at me once more. Then, knowing not her next move, she plopped perplexedly down, smushing the stealthy weeds poking through the pavers.

She had fussed after that very freedom nearly every day, clambered incessantly for a chance at independent outdoor exploration. Now she finally had it, and she didn't know what to do with herself.

It can be paralyzing when the possibilities are endless.

Up until now, the choosing was easy. The path was narrow, and the forks in the road few. I stumbled into wet career cement in my early 20s and wasted no time becoming a corporate fixture.

The ladder I climbed too quickly for comfort was the bunk bed variety. With each leadership rung, I came closer to the claustrophobic top bunk and further from the carefree, arm-spreading space on the carpet. And there was nary a night when I didn't toss and turn in that teeny space between the ceiling and the sheet, feeling terribly afraid about where I was ending up. This isn't me, I would insist, equally fearful of falling to the floor as I was of staying at the top.

Then came motherhood. This was my chance to shimmy down the rungs without looking like the girl who had climbed her way to the high dive and then chickened out. I took it. I slowed down so fast I felt sick from the motionlessness. I was barely past the shock, still chipping away the cement from my shoes, when a part time consulting opportunity knocked. It was the best of both worlds, and I wouldn't say no. That was nearly three years ago.

Today I scheduled my last billable hour. In two weeks time, I will no longer toggle between career and family. I will officially be a full-time, stay-at-home Mom.

Suddenly I'm standing in the middle of the yard, sharing streaks of sunrise with the daffodils. I cried and clambered for this scene for years; but now that I am here, I am strangely desparate for someone to whisk me back inside to what I know, not because it is better, but because it is familiar.

I have been securely trapped in time constraints for as long as I remember. It seems I always had towering tall, career-oriented excuses to hide behind when the meal was barely edible, or the garden wasn't producing, when I didn't read much more than email or feel curiosity beyond my field.

As that veil of excuses is removed, I see my fears for what they are. I don't know where to start. I don't know how to choose. I'm afraid I'll settle for survival instead of improvement. I'm afraid I'll waste time in little starts and stops instead of finishing one thing strong. I'm afraid I'll get the same mediocre results on the domestic front, even after I step up my effort.

But most of all, I'm paralyzed by the endless possibilities. I've often wished for the privilege to be a stay-at-home mom. So why is it, now that I'm finally standing here in a wide open yard with the morning dew on my cement-free toes, I somehow don't feel ready for it?

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I welcome your advice, encouragement, empathy, and success stories. Please comment or share a link, as I could use a little push to get me past the paralysis stage!

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A Sole-Wrenching Power Struggle

I lost ten minutes today in a power struggle over shoes.   It was not about the shoes Dani would wear, but about which shoe goes on what foot.  Seriously.  I used to negotiate how unfunded pension liabilities would impact the purchase price in cross-border acquisitions, and now I'm fighting about footwear with a two year old?  

That thing they say about motherhood "grounding" you?  It's true.  There are no gravity-defying egos left in this house, no sirree.  Both my feet are smack dab on the floor, though I might add that at least my shoes are properly assigned to the correct feet.

But here's the worst part about this morning's shoe skirmish.  I didn't win.

I transported her to the car seat shoeless, kicking and screaming, holding her outstretched like she was a live lobster and my nose was in dire danger of her snappity claws.  (To be clear, she was the shoeless, kicking and screaming one.  I at least had my shoes on.  And I'm pretty sure the well-being of my nose was truly at risk.)  

When I say I didn't win, I don't just mean I failed to get her shoes on straight.  I managed to get out the door, but I missed the opportunity to teach, by example, not just the correct sole alignment, but the correct heart alignment.  How can I encourage her to have a "happy heart" about what she's been asked to do when I'm clearly modeling the opposite attitude? 

Sigh, life was certainly easier when I was in charge of closing meaningless deals, not shaping precious lives.  I am so completely out of my element in this parenting gig, I might as well be wearing my shoes on the wrong feet.  

So there they are.  Both feet.  See 'em?  Glued to the floor, in another humbling moment courtesy of my toddler.  But I've resolved to handle it better next time, to take it one moment and one step at a time,  one foot in front of the other.  

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On Rejoicing & The Ridding of Rubbish

The trucker rattling along in the right lane surely heard us singing loud and clear, over and out:

"Rejoice in the Lord always and again I say rejoice....rejoice, rejoice and again I say rejoice!"  

Caed and I crooned carelessly off-key, while Dani piped in with the five second delay, adding "rejoice" only after we were already on "Again I say".  

I experienced one of those split seconds of parental pride, you know, the fleeting moment when you feel like something other than a complete failure.  Here I was, singing joyfully with my kids as we cruised down the highway, infusing oodles of anti-whining, pro-happy values into their little hearts.

After we finished serenading the semi-truck, Caed announced, "I know what 'joicin' means.  It means cleanin' up."  

Mmmkay, that's an interesting interpretation. I asked him to explain.  

He continued, "You know, rejoicin' is when we get out the vacuum and use the spray and the cloths to clean up our mess."  

Oh dear boy, could we be any farther from the textbook definition?  Rejoice means to "feel joy, to be delighted", not exactly the words that come to mind when I scrub the toilets.  (However, I have been known to rejoice when someone else scrubs the toilets.)  

So off I went in search of a correlation between the rejoicing and the ridding of the rubbish.  I never did figure out how Caed put the two together, but I did come up with a few theories of my own:

1) Both require repetition.  I decide daily, hourly, and even by the moment whether to rejoice or complain, and whether to let the dust settle or to stir it up and temporarily out.  Will I provide the crusty crumbs a rent-controlled haven on the breakfast chairs, or will I promptly evict them in hopes of a few hours of smudgeless vacancy? Whatever the answer, I know that within hours--if not minutes--the chairs will again be in need of wiping, as will the children.  And I repeatedly fight the battle between the my right shoulder Pollyanna ("Let's play the glad game!") and the left shoulder Debbie Downer ("Wuh...wuh...wuuhh").  

2) I grow weary and want to give up on both.  I reluctantly wash dishes. knowing they will soon be dirty again; and I do not easily delight in the daily drudgeries.  I find it difficult to choose joy in the midst of diaper duty, or to speak with a happy heart when settling sibling skirmishes over the only presently cool toy in a room teeming with plastic battery-powered childhood entertainment.  It is hard to rejoice the first time, let alone again, and again.  

3) I know I should do both, but I'd rather make excuses.  For example, "The house is just going to get trashed anyway, so why even bother?"  Or, "YOU try being joyful when surrounded by this incessant whining and these non-stop demands!"  

So maybe there is something to the cleaning and rejoicing connection. The Pollyanna in me thinks so.  The Debbie Downer in me feels like punching Pollyanna in the mouth, but refrains because human mouths are like one hundred times more germ-ridden than dogs' mouths, and oh the devastation that bacteria can cause....

Speaking of bacteria, I should probably go scrub those bathrooms.  

They are in dire need of a good thorough rejoicing.  

As am I.

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And giving...

I must have memorialized the hurl-fest prematurely. It is in fact, not over. Poor Sheridan. I should have known better than to give the girl the food she begged for. Next time I will take a stand and “just say no” to cheese. And all other forms of dairy, for that matter.

Let’s hope tomorrow brings about new material. Because let’s face it, nobody likes it when you blog on and on about barf. Not even the grandparents.

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The gift that kept on giving

Twas the night before Christmas, and what I wouldn’t give to say “not a creature was stirring”. In Dani’s short medical history, she has managed to create a strong correlation between special occasions and sickness. A couple of days before her birthday this year, she produced a raging ear infection (and reproduced her food a couple of times). We spent her birthday the year prior in the ER. And so it was not altogether surprising when at 11:00 p.m on Christmas Eve, Dani kicked off Hurlapalooza 2008.
We stayed up all night--mother and daughter--doing laundry, changing sheets, changing PJs, washing hair, and cuddling in between baths and the next “episode”. The festivities finally wound down by 5:00 a.m.
But it wasn’t over, folks. By Christmas evening, it was clear that Dani had been very generous with her germs. And the fun to be had was now mine all mine. Thank goodness MY mom was here. (Larry had to work from Christmas morning until the following day and couldn’t be around to bail me out.) While I spent the entire night in very close proximity to the great white throne, Nana held down the fort with the kiddos, kept the kitchen clean and the laundry going. When Caed woke up on Boxing Day at 5:30 a.m., rearing to go and determined to play with his new (and loud) Geotrax Airport, Nana quickly came to my rescue and sent me back to bed. Do you hear that? Yes, that is me, rising up and calling my mom blessed, a million times over.
So far, I have managed to be more miserly with my germs--the one situation when it is entirely acceptable to play the role of Scrooge. Knock on wood, Caed and Larry have not yet participated in the festivities, and let’s hope it stays that way!

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What's in a Name?

Apparently quite a bit.

So for those of you expectant parents, I suggest the name “Lugono Anela”, which supposedly means “sleeping angel”. Yep, I think that’s what I’d go with in hindsight.

I’ll start with Sheridan. Her name means “wild”. We paired it with middle name Alayne, which means “beauty”. Wild beauty, that's kind of nice, right? You know, like the long flowing hair, bright sparkly eyes sort of thing? Now of course I think my daughter is beautiful and all. But right now she seems to be giving more air time to her first name. Way more.

She fell down the stairs for the first time (top to bottom) this week. She cried a bit, and then not 5 minutes later, she took my hand and tried to drag me back up the stairs (she wanted to walk up, not crawl). It seemed like her way of saying to her hard-wood assailant, “Is that all ya got?”

But it isn’t just her fearless indifference to pain and consequences that makes her my official wild child. She also regularly pushes limits. Mine. Hers. Caed’s. Any limits will do, really, as long as she can push them. And if she can’t push limits, she’ll settle for buttons. Or slamming doors. Did I mention she has also endured a bloody lip and pinched fingers from the door slamming, and yet, this prolific practice continues with no lesson learned? (Only lesson learned here is this--don’t name your child “wild one”.) Indeed, I’m already praying for greater grace as age thirteen approaches.

And then there is Caed. He’s compliant, thoughtful and sensitive. (Don’t get me wrong--he still has the crazy energy of an almost 4 yr old boy, often exhibited at the most inopportune times). But he’s starting to scare me. His name means “Warrior” or “Battler” in the Gaelic. Yesterday, he revealed his namesake to me through his imagination. He solemnly reported that the wild animals were all trying to eat Baby Dani, and that he used his knife to cut them so they wouldn’t be alive anymore, and so that they couldn’t bite her.

He was almost beaming with pride as he recounted the pretend protection he provided to his little sister. Okay, that’s not so bad, you might think. Well, it gets a little worse. The day before the wild animals were on the prowl, he was pretending to be a soldier. Again, he was “cutting the bad guys”.

When I asked him where he learned about, ahem, “cutting”, he replied that he had seen a picture in the “God Book” (aka the Children’s Bible). I have to say, of all the media that might lead my child down the path of violence, I wouldn’t have guessed it would be the Bible. But alas, I checked out the picture he was talking about, and there it was, a picture of Abraham preparing to sacrifice his son Isaac, knife and all.

(To the editors of the Children’s Bible, I just have to say, “Really?? THAT’s the image that you had to depict out of hundreds of other possibilities in the vast recording of Hebrew history, most of which would be MUCH easier to explain to a 4 year old!”)

With all this namesake nonsense, I find myself wishing that my parents had thought to name me “Sabira Breanna Sage”, which means, “Patient, Strong & oh soo Wise”. Because that’s the kind of name I think I might need to rear my wild one and my warrior!

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I've got the power

The power to make my kids’ day or to break their precious hearts.
The power to mold them, or to scar them.
To calm their fears, or to give them reason to be afraid.
To inspire them to dream, or to dash their hopes.
To teach them well, or to stifle their learning.
The power to build and model good character or to confuse them with my hypocrisy.
I’ve got the power, and it terrifies me.

Caed asks so many questions, ranging from “where are the dinosaurs now?” to “what happens when people die?” He hears every word I say, and picks up on the exact tone in which I say it.

And I generally hear my words echoed in his little voice as he yells at the dog to “get outa here and stop your begging!” or as he admonishes me-- “You need to stop arguing with me right now!”

When I have a bad day (and a bad attitude), like I did yesterday, it doesn’t escape their watchful eyes. When I get bent out of shape about the little stuff, they see it. And then later, when I attempt to get Caed to “let it go” when his legos get knocked over, my parental hypocrisy is fully revealed!

I so love these little ones, and am painfully aware of the impact my words, attitudes and actions can have on their impressionable little hearts. And I pray that by God’s grace, far more good than harm will come from this incredible power that has been entrusted to me!

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