Wednesday, April 30, 2008

day twelve

Bagels and cream cheese for breakfast.


Chicken Salad Sandwiches with celery, fresh thyme and oregano, parsley, mayo and pecans.


romaine salad with olives, hard salami, provolone, parmasan, oil and vinegar. I made my garlic toasts, bruschetta and crostinis. It was a perfect meal.

day eleven

fireman away again... monotonous isn't it?

For breakfast we had oatmeal muffins again.


For lunch, neighbor D and I ran to Chipolte. I love the carnitas burrito with guacamole. And it's enough to share...


My girlfriend invited us for dinner and oh was it yummy. Soup, salad, and bread.

day ten

We had peanut butter toast for breakfast with strawberries. I love strawberry season!
For luncn, we made one of our stand by, warm weather lunches... tuna pasta salad. We use penne pasta with celery, almonds, tuna, grapes, and mayo with salt and pepper.

Dinner is one of the fireman's favorites and it's also super economical.
Beans and rice with homemade pico and guacamole with chips.

day nine

Sunday morning breakfast. What better way to start the day than Cracker Barrel? I know, I know. It's awful. It is carb heaven and I have to admit I love it.
I tried the Strawberry Pancakes- they were good, but would definitely go with my usual Egg Sandwich on sourdough next time.
Here's the aftermath... (and yes, it's shaky.... morning coffee had kicked in)


We didn't eat lunch today. With a huge breakfast, we were able to last until evening. We hosted our small group from church and made an Apple Crumble with Blue Bell Natural Vanilla Bean Ice Cream. Does life get any better??
No pics- it was too crazy with a million people in the house to feed.

Barn Raising


"On an otherwise ordinary night at the end of September, some friends came over to watch the lunar eclipse, friends whose two-year-old daughter Olivia had been diagnosed nine months earlier with cystic fibrosis. Now, out of the blue, the family has been plunged into an alternate world, a world where everyone's kid has a life threatening illness. I know that sometimes these friends feel that they have been expelled from the ordinary world they lived in before and that they are now citizens of the Land of the F*#@ed. They must live with the fact that their younger daugher has this disease that fills its victims' lungs with thick sludge that harbors infections. Two-week hospital stays for nonstop IV antibiotics are common. Adulthood is rare.

Watching Olivia watch the eclipse of the moon, I suddenly remembered New Year's Day, seven months ago, out at Stinson Beach with Sam and Olivia and her family. It was one of those perfect northern California days when dozens of children and dogs are running on the beach and pelicans are flying overhead and the mountain and the green ridges rise up behind you, and it's so golden and balmy that you inevitably commit great acts of hubris. Olivia seemed fine- happy, blonde, tireless. Just a few days before, her parents had taken her to the doctor for lab work, because her colds were always so severe. But she didn't have a cold on New Year's Day.
Then two days later he called with the news that she had cystic fibrosis. Now, seeing her the night of the eclipse, her upward gaze of pure child wonder, I find it both hard to remember when she wasn't sick and harder to believe she is.

At first, after the diagnosis, we were almost too stunned to cry. Olivia's family has a tribe of good friends around them, and everyone wanted to help, but at first people didn't know what to do; they were immobilized by shock and sadness.
By mid January, though, I had a vision of the disaster as a gigantic canvas on which had been painted an exquisitely beautiful picture. We all wanted to take up a corner or stand side by side and lift it together so that Olivia's parents didn't have to carry the whole thing themselves. But I saw that they did in fact have to carry almost the whole heartbreaking picture alone. Then the image of a canvas changed into one wall of a barn, and I saw that the people who loved them could build a marvelous barn of sorts around the family.
So we did. We raised a lot of money; catastrophes can be expensive. We showed up. Sometimes we cleaned, we listened, some of us took care of the children, we walked their dog, and we criend and then made them laugh; we gave them a lot of privacy, then we showed up and listened and let them cry and cry and cry, and then took them for hikes.
We kept on cooking and walking the dog, taking the kids to the park, cleaning the kitchen and letting Sara and Adam hate what was going on when they needed to. Sometimes we let them resist finding any meaning or solace in anything that had to do with their daughter's diagnosis, and this was one of the hardest things to do- to stop trying to make things come out better than they were. We let them spew when they needed to; we offered the gift of no comfort when there being no comfort was where they had landed. Then we shopped for groceries. One friend gave them weekly massages, everyone gave lots of money. And that is how we built our Amish barn.
Now eight months later, things are sometimes pretty terrible for them in a lot of ways, but at the same time, they got a miracle. It wasn't the kind that comes in on a Macy's Thanksgiving Day float. And it wasn't the on they wanted, where God would rach down from the sky and touch their girl with a magic wand and restore her to perfect health. Maybe that will still happen- who knows? I wouldn't put anyting past God, because he or she is one crafty mother. Still, they did get a miracle, one of those dusty little red-wagon miracles, and they understand this.
(That night, the night of the eclipse) We stood outside for a while longer, talking out this last flare-up, how frightened Sara had felt, how tired. And I didn't know what to say at first, watching Olivia go chasing after the big kids, coughing. Except that we, their friends, all know that the rains and the wind will come, and they will be cold- oh, God, will they be cold. But then we will come too, I said; we will have been building this barn all along, and so there will always be shelter."

I wept when I read this chapter from Anne Lamott's book, Traveling Mercies. Her incredible gift of writing resonated so deeply within me. She is writing exactly how I feel when I think of the loving shelter our friends and family are giving us through these last months. Oh, that I was that gifted to be able to articulate the feelings swirling in me. I know that JRA is not life threatening. I know this. But everything has tipped and shifted and my feet haven't quite landed in a spot where I know what to expect.
So I want to say thank you, dear ones, for holding me up when my legs and my spirit give out. Thank you for extending grace when I totally flop as a person. My world has shrunk and swollen and blurred and the constant, the saving force, has been the mercy extended and love shown.

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

i am me


I am a mother,
daughter,
sister,
friend,
wife.
I am wife to the fireman.
Wife- companion, partner, lover, helpmate.
I am a novice gardener.
I love harvesting and eating fresh herbs and tomatoes.
I am thrilled when I can cut my own flowers and have them in vases throughout the house.
I am a cook.
I am an apron-wearer in my kitchen.
I love to eat.
I start a diet almost every Monday.
I quit dieting by Tuesday.
I love to shop Farmer's Markets and eat vegetarian meals from the bounty of my garden.
I love to eat fresh peaches and feel the juice drip down my chin.
I love Rainier cherries and Honeycrisp apples.
I am a cheese and dark chocolate lover.
I love the feel of crisp sheets off the line in the summer.
I hate the intense heat of summer.
I love my bed.
I love to nap.
I rarely take a nap.
I paint my house in vibrant colors.
I love the smell and feel of newborn babies.
I wish I could relive the moment of pushing a new baby in to the world whenever I wanted.
I love shopping in office supply stores.
I am a bargain hunter.
I get a rush from getting a good deal.
I am an artist.
I sing.
I want to be in a band.
I paint.
I am a reader.
I wish I could sit and read all day.
I love used book stores.
I am a good friend to a few and acquaintance to many.
I love girlfriend time.
I love to be touched.
I wish I could have a massage every week.
I am thankful.
I wish I had lots of money to give away.
I am a hard worker.
I am hard on myself.
I am a traveller.
I want to travel all over the world.
I want to pick olives in Provence, France.
I want to smash grapes in a vineyard in Italy.
I want to go the opera in Vienna.
I want to drink a Guinness in Dublin (again).
I want to play the drums and tap dance (not simultaneously).
I am an Apple Computer kind of girl.
I want to make out with my computer.
I am a PBS junkie.
I would totally throw my underwear at Frontline. (stole that line)
I love to laugh.
I love to dance (in the privacy of my own home when no one is around).
I listen to all kinds of music.
I hate rap.
I hate local weather forcasts and their drama.
I am phobic about lots of things:
someone sneaking up and scaring me when I am in the shower
that when I vacuum, someone is going to come at me from behind and scare me
that when in a public bathroom, someone is going to reach under and slash my Achilles Tendon
that a tornado is coming after me
that baby Jack is going to break my nose or teeth
that when I shower during a thunderstorm, lightening will strike my house sending electricity through the shower head and electrify me
my car going off of a bridge and I will have to choose which child to rescue from their car seat and save
that sharks are after me- (yes, even in swimming pools)
someone is going to be hiding under my car and slash my Achilles Tendon (what is it with the Tendon??)
I am a free spirit deep down inside.
I am in bondage.
I am trying to break the bonds holding me down.
I love to shop.
I hate buying jeans and swimming suits.
I have a love/hate relationship with my body.
I finally like my curly hair.
I only wear comfortable shoes and good bras.
I love art deco jewelry.
I don't own a diamond.
I love history.
I am a writer.
I am a story teller.
I am not a joke teller.
I am a teacher.
I teach reading, writing, geography, history, music, bible, science, math, art, and Latin.
I don't touch bugs.
I love that my kids all have my same birthmark on their foreheads.
I love hearing my eldest belly laugh.
I love to hear the middle sing.
I love to see my Baby Jack asleep.
I love to go on dates.
I eat my steaks mid-rare.
I expect the best from people.
I don't like free-loaders.
I want to be disciplined.
I am a giver.
I want to live close to the ocean and the mountains.
I am an old house lover.
I love red and turquoise together.
I drive with my windows down, sunroof open, and music cranked.
I am a foreign film watcher.
I wear big jewelry.
I am hippie-esque.
I love picnics and outdoor theaters.
I am a roller coaster rider.
I am an open book.
My face turns red when I am mad.
My eyes turn dark when I am tired, sick, or sad.
I cry regularly.
I am a believer.
I am a dreamer.

I am me.

Monday, April 28, 2008

open mouth, insert foot

I have this uncanny ability to say inappropriate and ill timed sentences. I kick myself for it. I feel really bad about it. I don't want to be the girl that people avoid because something ugly and hurtful pops out. And I don't want to always feel tense and unsure, fearful of the involuntary words slipping past my monitoring system. I don't remember being like this before. I always considered myself as tactful and reassuring. But recently, I feel like I need to apologize to people before I even venture in to conversation- just as a precautionary measure.

Ug, I could just wash my mouth out sometimes.

I have been feeling like a bad friend lately. I don't feel like I have enough energy to go around or time to share with the people that really matter. I can't get on the phone for more than 5 minutes without someone under 3 feet tall requiring my urgent and necessary attention. I am pulled emotionally in all directions and it is exhausting. I am afraid of what people must think of me.

I feel very distracted. I know it's normal and I should cut myself some slack. I have been up to my ears in projects and have a very needy and temperamental toddler now. He is so very demanding. I am not sure how to deal with him effectively and most nights I crawl in to bed feeling guilty and depressed. I am not equipped for this job. This child challenges what little I thought I had figured out. I am not sure how to discipline with love and grace when I am losing my mind and my patience.

I am reminded of his illness with each of his uneven steps. The sound of his labored gait is a dead give away and my heart aches to know if I am doing the right thing by him. I wake up each day saying, "today will be the day that I don't lose my temper." But more mornings than not I am crying before I leave the bed. He is crazy and out of control. He uses his body as a ram rod and his head as a sledge hammer. I feel physically abused by the way he throws his weight around. He doesn't necessarily do it out of meanness- just wildness. Oh how I wish I could tame him- if even a bit.

The limp is still there and now it's progressed in to something a bit scarier. He is dragging his foot and it's back to the odd 45 degree angle. I roll this around and around and feel the anxiety and frustration pounding in my skull. I wish he could talk and explain it all away. I want him to tell when and where exactly he feels the pain. I want him to tell me when he steps in a hole and twists his foot, just aggravating the problems that already exist. I want to be on top of his illness, one step ahead.

But instead, I am floundering around, stressing about tomorrow, wishing I could control my temper. I wish I could just close my mouth and put one foot in front of the other.

Day Eight


another day of the Fireman being away. Wow these days are so long when he is gone.
So, in order to help me survive the day, I baked Oatmeal Muffins with strawberries and lots and lots of butter. I need baked goods to help me through the stressful days.

I admit, I was a bad mommy for lunch and we just skipped it all together. I think we snacked on white bean dip and carrots, grapes, animal crackers, cheese, and popcorn. We also went to visit a friend and it helped me get through the lonely day.
Which brings me to dinner. I didn't have the heart, or time, to cook. So we stopped and got Quesadillas from Taco Bueno for dinner.

Day Seven

Friday mornings are our busiest. We are out the door by 8:40 to get to school on time. The kids had bowls of puffed wheat and strawberries with milk.
Lunch was a huge Mexican potluck- tacos, dips, chips, salads, and lots of desserts.

For dinner we shared a meal with our neighbors- Grilled Bratwursts with saukraut and mustard, oven roasted potato salad with bacon and rosemary, cabbage salad, cheddar cheese, and crusty bread. Oh- and a delicious blackberry crisp. This is a picture of the aftermath.

Day Six


Scrambled eggs, bacon, and whole wheat toast with butter and my homemade peach preserves.


Oh my, delicious, delicious, delicious. I love Reuban Sandwiches.

I will have to come back to dinner- what did we have??? I think we just had popcorn, apples and cheese- a standby dinner.

Day Five


The fireman is away today so cooking three meals from scratch is totally out the window. We started the day with puffed wheat with bananas and soymilk.


Lunch- Auntie Ann's Organic Bunny O's with red grapes.


For dinner I busted out a favorite- Lentil Loaf with bruschetta sauce and a Caesar Salad. I LOVE seeing my kids eat this up. It is power packed with lentils, bown rice, spinach, basil, corn, carrots, onions, and celery, and mozarella. YUM!

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Day Four

No pictures today of breakfast or lunch. My camera's batteries were completely gonners when I woke up this morning. So I will just have to record our meals- which weren't exciting since we spent almost the entire day painting, tiling, and trimming our laundry room. My, how laundry piles up if I don't do it every day.

breakfast- granola and yogurt parfaits with coffee (of course)
lunch- sandwiches at Lambruzco's, fruit salad, coleslaw, and a variety of cookies for dessert


Dinner was enjoyed in the home of our friends. We had a delicious spinach salad, soup, and crusty bread.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Chapter Three: Sowing the Seeds, Harvesting the Crop


I love, love, love to garden.
We have been gardening all week. I was out broadcasting seeds and watering them in this morning. I admit I was also singing to them out of a small superstition that they will feel more loved and anxious to appear. I want to communicate how much I love these seed and hope they germinate sooner rather than later. While standing there, breathing in the fresh air and rich earth smell, I started comparing parenting to planting a garden. My mind went wild with it- so bear with me.

I begin my spring by reading books on gardening. The bookstore and library call to me. I could spend hours and hours reading through the "how to" books and looking through the garden photography in my favorite magazines. I love looking through seed catalogs and want to buy from a reputable seed company. And when my seeds arrive I imagine what this seed will look like when it grows up and what the fruit will smell and taste like. I touch them gently, talk to them, and care for them. I ensure that the soil is right for the particular plant and I find the shady or sunny spot that is recommended in the books. I consult my friends with more gardening experience when necessary. I read the directions over and over and when the time is right, I nervously plant them, with high hopes that they will produce a magnificent plant. I want this baby to have every chance I can possibly give it to ensure it survives and thrives.
And sometimes I am totally surprised, and delighted, when I plant a seed and something unexpected springs up (and this happens frequently). Or when I plant two seemingly identical seeds and they sprout and blossom in to two unique plants with colors and flowers all their own.

I water and feed the plants fertilizer when necessary and then I wait, sometimes patiently and sometimes not so patiently, to see the first green sprout push back the soil and enter the world above. And once it arrives I dance around and sing to it hoping it will feel encouraged and excited about being part of my garden. How pleased I am to see these tiny, precious seedlings arrive. I dream of the day they will flower and fruit. And if I feel the spot I originally chose is not the best for my plant, I am willing to relocate her.

But, indeed, there are things I can't control: the intense heat of the summer, the ferocious spring rains, the infestation of undesirable bugs and weeds who could easily overpower and take my plant from me. There is only so much I can do for the plant to ensure its health and then I have to leave it out there, in the world, come what may.
I think this is the hardest part. I am so unhappy when I wake up in the mornings to find the pesky squirrels have run off with the bits of fruits. (Watch out squirrels because if I catch you ravaging my plant, I will hunt you down and hurt you.)

Just like with my precious kiddos- I can't control them, I don't own them, they are mine only for a season and then I have to let go. I will tend to them with love and patience and try to shield them from harm. I will consult other parents and read endless parenting books. I can sing and dance with them and pray over them that they will grow healthy and strong and live to be the anchor in our garden, bearing beautiful and delicious fruit in abundance. I want my kids to see their world for what it is- an amazing gift to be enjoyed and shared with others, a place to contribute their best and plant a garden all their own.

Monday, April 21, 2008

Day Three


Grain Cakes with fresh strawberries and maple syrup.


100% vegetarian Taco Salad- again, outside at the neighbors.

For dinner we are having leftover German Stuffed Peppers from yesterday.

(wow it feels good to be caught up!)

Day Two


About once a month the fireman will splurge and bring home bagels and cream cheese from Panera Bread Company. YUM!


German Stuffed Peppers and brown rice with White Bean Dip, carrot sticks, and pita chips


Grilled Chicken Breasts and legs for the kids, oven roasted potatoes with rosemary, and fabulous salad with marinated yellow bell peppers, cherry tomatoes, red onion and goat cheese in balsamic vinagrette- enjoyed outside with our neighbors. Yes, the ones we had dinner with the night before. (See, told you they love us.)

Sunday, April 20, 2008

forgive me

I have returned, somewhat suddenly, to the self-loathing state. I jumped into it following a situation where I totally screwed up. I admit this- I am at fault. I messed up. I take the blame and I have been feeling ugly ever since.

I have this problem. If I feel like someone is or has been mad at me, I shut down. It's not a choice on my part- it's automatic. I can't stand it. So knowing that I disappointed someone or hurt their feelings and made them upset with me, kills me. Literally, little pieces of me die off; I think 'wither' would be the correct word. And although I know this friend says she has forgiven me, I can't forgive myself. I was stupid and thoughtless and I made an ass of myself and it's hard to get over. Our friendship will be different now, I know it. I can feel it. And our other friends who know about it- I think it will be different with them too. I feel like they are mad at me and don't trust me either. They will look at me through different eyes and see something I never wanted to be.

I may have invented this whole world of hurt, but it's the world I live in today. So I will retreat in to busyness and projects and kids. I will emerge in a few weeks and hopefully be able to do my part to restore and resume my relationships. But for now, I need space to wallow in the pit I created.

Last week I spent the day with one of my dearest friends. It was a day of celebration and a close to a perfect day. It was bright and beautiful and we ate delicious food and laughed and talked and sat on the porch swing and watched the girls giggle and bounce on the trampoline. We cooked and the smell of bread filled the house. I love any time I spend with her, but this day was particularly good. We seamlessly move from talk of tomatoes and plants to deep, life lessons. She said that she thinks I am her spirit child... and I hang on to that compliment and all it implies. I am so unconditionally loved and accepted by her and it feels so, so good. When I try to imagine the love that God has for me, I think of her love as a tangible example.

She told me a story about two little boys on an airplane. They didn't know each other, but as all kids do, they immediately started talking and playing. Near the end of the flight, one of the boys said, "Hey, I have an idea. Let's be friends." The other replied, "how do we do that?" The first boy said, "It's simple. First we spend time together and then we tell each other secrets."
I think these kids have already figured out a lot about life and relationships. I love it.

When my friend finished telling me the story of the two boys, she shared what this interaction meant to her regarding her relationship with God- the spending time together and telling God the secrets of her heart. There is a sweetness to this message, like honey after a fast. It seems simple.

I don't know how all this relates, but somewhere, in the self-inflicted gloom of my spirit, it does. I am in the process of weaving and knitting and piecing it all together. And until I figure it out, I hope my friend is patient and understands that it's just me. It's hard work to forgive myself.

Day One

It's the beginning of a very revealing 30 days. I am somewhat embarrased of our first day's meals. I guess I thought we ate better than this and typically I think we do. But we are in "project mode" trying to get the house on the market some time during the next two weeks. Who wants to cook when they have been out in the garden all day or painting all afternoon? Not me... hence. two meals from restaurants.



Homemade fruity granola with yogurt and strawberries. And the morning coffee, of course.



Tuna Hoagies from Subway with Fritos and a pickle.



Senior Tequila's Steak Fajitas with sauteed onions and peppers, beans and rice, guacamole and sour cream and LOTS of chips and salsa. A fun and yummy meal shared with our neighbors (the ones that love us that pretend they don't).

Saturday, April 19, 2008

lessons

This morning, in the rush to get out the door to school, the house went crazy. We only "go to school" one day a week and getting there by 9 am, with everyone dressed and fed, is a monumental task. I honestly don't know how my friends do it by 7:45 am, five days a week. Since I see friends this day, I like to shower and look somewhat pulled together and I have to review the song I am teaching too.
So as every Friday morning happens, this one was nuts. At one point I was cutting up strawberries, getting my shoes on, rehearsing the song and reading the scripture lyrics, and pretending to listen to the eldest recite the first 20 Presidents and the First, Second, and Third Laws of Thermodynamics. Maggie had just finished and I was getting breakfast on the table when I heard my Poppy start screaming frantically. I ran in to the girls' room and found her hanging precariously from the top bunk on top of the ladder which had been perched along the end (to keep Baby Jack from climbing to the top). This is one of the rules of our house: Do not stand, jump, or climb around on the top bunk. It's dangerous. Poppy looked terribly frightened and honestly, the way her arms looked, I wouldn't be surprised if her shoulders had popped out of their sockets or if she had torn a rotary cuff.
I grabbed her and Maggie grabbed the ladder to avoid anyone or anything getting smooshed. I set her on the bed and explained that she had broken a rule. Didn't I tell her not to climb up there? Not to mess with the ladder on top? That she could get very hurt and mommy would be sad if she was hurt? That mommy tells her these things and makes these rules so she won't be hurt? Why don't you obey mommy when you know that I am helping to keep you safe?
As I was saying all of this, I had a different lesson spouting in my head. I was imagining God saying the same thing to me, maybe a little more gently. Don't I tell you these good things and offer up these guidelines in order to save you from hurt and harm? Don't you just wonder if He doesn't throw up His hands in exasperation and roll His eyes? I am sure He does. He must.

Friday, April 18, 2008

30 day food journal



The fireman and I have been discussing our eating habits. We decided to take a look at our meals for 30 days and, when possible, take a photograph to be included. We will be completely honest- even recording the occasional fast-food slips. So starting tomorrow morning, bright and early, the adventure begins.
scary.....

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Chapter Two: Let them eat cake



I have heard many comments about how great my kids eat. I don't take any credit for this. Some kids are wild, spontaneous, and adventureous. Some kids aren't. I got lucky.
I have learned that through all the ups and downs of eating, ultimately, I can't control what they put in their mouths. All I can do is offer good choices. If they have a table full of good choices, why do I care if they only eat one of those items in bulk? Why stress about them pigging out on apple slices or strawberries for 2 days straight?
I have also figured out that there is no rhyme or reason as to what they will want today vs tomorrow. Baby Jack will eat 3 cups of green beans one day and the next, totally turn up his nose. And I can't help but be a little annoyed that I went to the trouble of cooking him a nutritious and delicious lunch of green beans and it's a wasted effort. I think I feel, irrationally, unappreciated and rejected. But I get over it.
I love seeing my kids enjoying a Lentil Loaf or bowl of hummus and carrot sticks. I am thrilled when my kids eat salads and praise them when they try something they don't think they will like. I am learning not to take it personally when they don't like what I have fixed. But I am not a short order cook and I refuse to cook a separate meal for them. They may eat what we are eating as a family or not eat at all.
We have a few table rules: wash your hands before sitting at the table, stay on your bottom the whole time, don't eat during the prayer, if you ask for second helpings, be prepared to eat them, you may not have dessert unless you have eaten your meal, and you must wait for everyone to finish before leaving the table.
Do we ever eat hot dogs and pizza? Do my children know what a slush is? Do we eat out? Yes. But there is a balance.
We have many conversations about our food and where it comes from. We share what we know about the meat we choose to eat and why we avoid certain things. We talk about the food chain and life cycle and chemicals and anitbiotics and high fructose corn syrup and hydrogenated oils. I don't expect them to understand it all, but I want them to know that I think it's important and relavant for them to be included. I want them to grow up aware of who they are, where they come from, and how their choices affect their bodies and world.
I want stress free and guilt free gatherings at the table. Life spills out of people and time stands still when sharing a meal. I don't want to my children to feel pressure or fear, rather joy and thanksgiving and adventure. And coming together only on special occasions or certain nights is shameful in my book. This is one of the few times we sit, as a family, and look one another in the eye and talk and touch and laugh. The act of sharing food connects us to one another and to our Creator. Meals are sacred. So turn off the television and pay attention to each other. Turn off the lights and light the candles. Toast to one another and to the accomplishments of the day. Invite friends and neighbors to break bread with your family and don't be afraid to have a messy kitchen and linger a bit longer than usual at the table. Your children will see this and soak it in. They will begin to understand that food not only nourishes our bodies, but nourishes hearts and relationships as well.

Meals should be fun and if they aren't something is wrong.

Include your kids in the preparation and clean up. Invite them to help you pick the perfect tomato and the right amount of herbs. Show them how to smell for the sweetness of the cantaloupe and and look for the unblemished apples. Let them knead the bread and feel the smooth texture and smell the yeast. My girls are delighted when I allow them to assist me in the kitchen. I love to watch them peruse the spices in my cabinet, smelling and giggling and talking about what they see and smell. And I think that this is where it all begins. The love affair with food.

I pray that my children will eat responsibly and with an adventurous spirit. I hope they will learn to cook and cook well. I hope that when they work hard on a new recipe and when it totally flops, they won't lose the heart to try something new again. I pray that they won't ever self medicate with food, filling the empty, lonely places in their hearts with calories. I hope they will make good choices now and when they have families of their own gathered in their kitchens. And I pray that I will be invited to dine frequently in their homes and around their tables and enjoy my family and the bounty of my life.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

new at this



I have never fancied myself a writer. I leave that to my fireman who has a rare and beautiful way of composing sentences. For example, I always defer the Christmas letter to him, the master of words. He actually enjoys reading books about the origin of the English language which I find totally weird. I wish he would write a book and make us rich.

Writing is empowering. I realize how much time I waste rolling around thoughts and ideas and conversations, never drawing conclusions. Stewing, unproductively, is sucking the life out of me. But writing forces me to figure out what I really think about things. Am I mad about this? Am I ready to move on? What grief stage am I in? In a way it is very freeing.

Some people keep a prayer journal. It would be nice to peruse a prayer journal over the years and take note of what prayers have been answered and how. Life would unfold from a totally different perspective if looked at through prayers. I'm just not that disciplined with journals or with prayers.

I can't say that I love to write, but it feels good- like a hot shower after I've worn tight pantyhose and high heel shoes for too long. It feels good to spit it out. Get it out. Finally. I think I feel an accountability when I blog to be honest and timely. I feel an urgency to deal with my "stuff" and move on. It's a pressure that I need. It forces me in to spill my guts out and see what the emptiness brings. Sometimes it brings nothing and for me, that's good too. I feel sorted out. I have organized my thoughts and feelings and put away the ones that do nothing for me or aren't mine to own anymore.

I feel numb now. I haven't cried in days. I don't feel sad, but not necessarily happy either. Maybe it's survival mode. I wish we had a plan. I wish I could rub the magic ball and see my future. I want to know where we will be in 2 months, 2 years.

I need some yummy food and laughter- the kinds that is so out of control it's crying and laughing at the same time. Where your head feels like it might burst from your body and your sides hurt- when even your good friends are surprised and little scared of you.

I painted today. The entry hall is now a nice model home khaki color instead of my bright green apple. The fireman hated that green from the moment the first stroke hit the wall. I loved it. I guess he thinks the house will be more appealing with subtle and normal colors through out. Maybe it will balance out the crazy kitchen. I love to paint. I love to see the colors change so dramatically and suddenly. I wish I could paint my insides and redecorate them. If it could only be that simple.

I held a newborn last night. I was reminded of the fragility of life and the lightening speed of time. Tomorrow she will look different and in a few hours, weigh several more ounces. Her eyes will open for more than 4.57 minutes a day and her world will bloom and become fragrant and colorful. Her tiny hands will reach and grasp and, with wonder, her parents will delight in each moment and milestone. It's the newness and freshness of life, unsullied and unaffected. It's the irony of life- she is totally free in spirit and mind yet, physically, completely attached and dependent.

I am tired. My brain is grinding to a halt. I am high on paint fumes.
I hope to slip into dreamless sleep and wake refreshed.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

do you hear that?



It's quiet. Silence is rare in this crazy house full of kids and music and life. I go into a kind of shock and start twitching- not sure what to do with myself. I feel like I should get in to a yoga position and try to meditate, but the silence is fleeting and once I am in position, I am distracted by the tightness of my pants or that I am having a difficult time breathing because my large momma boobs are up around my face, smothering me. And then I start in with the negative self talk that I should have gotten my weight under control by now and that the "I've just had a baby" excuse was tired about 20 months ago.

Silence is uncomfortable. I am intimidated by it. I feel like I should have profound and reflective thoughts. I don't. It's empty up there, just some spare change rattling around in my head.

I am easily distracted. I wonder sometimes if I have ADHD. If I try to get up early in the morning and to have quiet time, I have a million distractions, mainly in my head. I go through the to do lists and must have's and cravings and quickly spin in to a state of anything but quiet and relaxed.

Are all moms this way? Please tell me I am not alone. Please tell me that one day I will reach a place of enlightenment, of nothingness, of stillness in my head, if even for 60 seconds.

Monday, April 14, 2008

follow up

I forgot to mention that the man that fell over at the Community Center a couple of Fridays ago was released from the hospital the following Monday. Wow.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

side effects


I am having to make a checklist now of all the meds and how often to administer them. Here's what I have so far:
Iron- 3 times daily
Folic Acid- half a pill, ground, mixed with orange juice once daily except on Methatrexate day (Thursday)
Naproxen- twice daily
Methatrexate- oral, once weekly
Enbral- injection, once weekly (I refuse to give this one. I will be running Baby Jack up to the Fire Station to see daddy on Thursdays)
Steroid- once daily

Does this sound crazy to anyone else?
On top of it, I can expect diarrhea, weight gain, aggression, appetite surge and extreme thirst, susceptibility to catching illnesses due to a compromised immune system, bloating and puffiness (aren't we trying to rid the puffiness?), sleep issues, possible hair loss, and a slew of other things I don't even want to think about.

Last night we were up for 4 hours with vomiting. And we just kept asking ourselves, "is this because of the medication?" How are we suppose to know when he is ill or it's just a side effect of this enormous medicinal cocktail?

I called St Louis this morning and spoke to our nurse. She is so nice (although she gave us a thrashing for not immunizing Jack.) I told her about his crazy behavior the last few days- tantrums like I have never seen before, fidgeting, and sleep walking. She told me that this was normal, expected behavior due to the drugs racing through his little body. But just because he is ill and medicated, doesn't mean I shouldn't and can't still set boundaries for him. When he screams for 30 minutes, turning red and sweaty, thrashing around on the floor and coming close to vomiting and hyperventilating, it's just the medicine "talking" and to keep that in mind. At the same time, I can put him in time out and explain that this is inappropriate behavior. Yeah, right. Sounds like a plan.
She did ask me if I was seeing any improvements and I have to admit that we really are. So there's the catch.

It's going to be a long summer, I think. I am kind of feeling sorry for myself today. Can you tell? I think any friends we have might not want to be around us unless we can hire a babysitter- and that might be short-lived since one tantrum could make them decline any more evenings alone with Baby Jack.
In fact, I would like to decline evenings alone with Baby Jack. He is exhausting to be around. I had to send out an S.O.S. to the fireman yesterday that if he wanted to see his son alive he needed to meet me at the car and take over while I went inside and locked myself in the bathroom. (Have I mentioned that I love this man? He understands. He doesn't make me feel bad for chickening out on the injection or occasionally wanting to huck Baby Jack out the window. And he does all the clean up when the vomit monster emerges from one of our children- I sit in the corner, rocking back and forth, paralyzed at the sight and smell.)

I am tired of cleaning up nasty, smelly diapers- the kind that make me choke and throw up a little in my mouth. Jack isn't afraid any more when I come in the room with a bandanna tied around the lower half of my face. I think he thinks we are playing "Cowboys and Indians" when all I am trying to do is not lose my morning coffee. There is something absolutely sickening about "iron" poops.
I'm tired of being irrationally mad at people. Like at the friend who told me when Jack broke his foot that everything would be fine. "Just wait and see. Before long, he will be up and around and better than ever." Still waiting on that one. And. although I KNOW it doesn't makes sense, I feel cheated and that it's her fault for setting me up for this huge disappointment.
I am tired of hearing my girls being terrorized. I hate that I have to explain to them that Baby Brother can't help it if he tries to bulldoze them and that they have my permission to lock their bedroom door to escape him. (Anyone want to come over for a play date?)
I realize that I am suffering side effects- like second guessing everytime he doesn't eat or eats too much, is constipated or has diarrhea, has fever, sleeps a lot or not at all, if I should spat his bottom or not. Do I discipline him differently since he is ill? Absolutely. Should I? Absolutely no idea. Can I help it? Absolutely not. It is always in the back of my mind.

I wonder if I will come to a point when I don't look at him and see the disease. Will I be able to see Jack and not 'Jack with JRA '? Will I ever feel like this is normal? Will I get used to this?

Friday, April 11, 2008

I take it back....

I feel really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really sorry for my friend who has to shuffle her kids all over town.



Happy now, M?

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

needle and thread lyrics


When the world welcomes us in,
We’re closer to Heaven than we’ll ever know.
They say this place has changed,
But strip away all of the technology
And you will see
That we all are hunters,
Hunting for something that will make us okay.

Here we lay alone in hospital beds,
Tracing life in our heads;
But all that is left
Is that this was our entrance and now it’s our exit,
As we find our way home.

All the blood and all the sweat
That we invested to be loved
Follows us into our end,
Where we begin to understand

That we are made of love,
And all the beauty stemming from it.
We are made of love,
And every fracture caused by the lack of it.

“You were a million years of work,”
Said God and His angels, with needle and thread.
They kissed your head and said,
“You’re a good kid and you make us proud.
So just give your best and the rest will come,
And we’ll see you soon.”

All the blood and all the sweat
That we invested to be loved
Follows us into our end,
Where we begin to understand

That maybe Hollywood was right:
When the credits have rolled and the tears have dried,
The answers that we have been dying to find
Are all pieced together and, somehow,
Made perfectly mine.

We are made of love,
And all the beauty stemming from it.
We are made of love,
And every fracture caused by the lack of love

Identity Crisis

the fog is lifting.
I have been in a funk- for a very, very long time.
I have no idea when it started.
I feel better everyday.

So what does that mean about me? If I let the sunshine in to my soul, where does that take me? It could turn me inside out and I don't know if I am ready for that. I have this space, this private place, that is hurt and hidden away. It's a part of me- it's who I am at the core. So how do I move on from who I am?
I am a victim, people. So what does it mean about me if start feeling better and don't feel victimized anymore? It's like starting over and that's scary. Would I be one of those "happy people" that are one step from the "happy place", AKA the insane asylum? I am processing, processing. I am hovering outside of myself, wondering what it means to be free. If I am truly moving on then I don't need to talk about the baggage anymore. I don't have to remind anyone of how hard my life has been and how mistreated and misunderstood I feel. I won't need the feelings of satisfaction and gratification I get when I see the sympathy in my listener's eyes- I won't need them to think I am pathetic and sad.

So here I am, feeling better than I have felt in a really, really long time and I don't know what that means. My bubble has burst and I am standing at a bus stop in my underwear. Which clothes will I choose to put on? And what bus am I going to take- and to where?

I do understand that tomorrow I might wake up and feel the weight again. But right now I am in nesting-mode, hoping to park myself and make myself comfortable for a while. And yet there is an uneasiness, a waiting for the bomb to go off again.

Who am I and where am I going?

If I am free, why am I so confused? Why do I feel so naked and vulnerable?

I started this post 2 days ago and didn't quite feel I had drawn any conclusions. So I have been sitting on it
.
Well, the bottom did drop out again, the bomb went off.
The call came through and Baby Jack has had a second diagnosis- the confirmation that he is indeed ill and suffering from JRA. I was waiting, hopeful, that this had all been a misunderstanding- that our doctor had been presumptuous and hasty. But he was right. Am I saying this finally? He was right.

I am in denial. I don't want a sick baby. I don't deserve this. Jack doesn't deserve this. He is innocent.

I called my girlfriend this morning to share the news and her question was, "how is your heart?" My, what an insightful (and rarely asked) question. She knows. She knows because she has a baby that suffers. Even over the phone I knew she was holding on to me. I am in fetal position today and she wrapped herself around me, protecting me from the elements and flying debris- sheilding me for a moment from life and letting me just rest in this new realization. She helped my world stand still for 5 minutes and allowed me to lose it. Thanks, M.
So how am I? How is my heart? It feels broken. Today, it's in pieces.

I have to be honest, it's really, really hard for me to give the meds to Baby Jack. I have a dread and resistance. It's a feeling I can't explain or control. I am reluctant to pump his body full of synthetic chemicals. It goes against my conscience. And now we will add on two additional drugs- injections. I am going to have to get over myself. Six medications. We have been on a four drug regiment for months now and with little results.
I dread this.

Monday, April 7, 2008

blame


Blame is an ugly thing. It steals and destroys. It hurts and divides.

And why do we feel like we must place blame? Is it part of the healing or problem? What satisfaction do we glean from pointing the finger? Is it a morale or self esteem booster? Does it help me to look in the mirror and feel better about myself if I can place the blame somewhere else?

Blame is a slippery thing. I can point the blame finger as quickly as someone else points the finger back at me. It's my word against hers. So how do we know who is right and where the blame should land? And does it really matter in the end? And just because I say blame is hers doesn't mean she has to accept and carry it.

Blame is a time-waster. I can stew all I want on who's fault it was, but I am still here and instead of moving forward I am spinning my wheels and going nowhere. I am not a better person for placing the blame.

Blame accomplishes nothing. When I hand over the blame, it is an empty satisfaction only. It doesn't mean reconciliation; it has nothing to do with reconciliation. Maybe I will have a temporary feeling of justification, but I can only hold on to that nothingness for so long before I am left with a pointing finger aimed at no one.

Blame makes me lonely. Blame separates. Blame embitters.
And do I want to be bitter and lonely and separated from my world, my circle?

Today is a new day and the finger is has been folded and put away. Blame is part of shame and guilt and that's not part of a healthy me.
I choose peace and happiness, friendship and love, grace and fullness of life.

Sunday, April 6, 2008

say it

I left my home-school co-op last Friday, had lunch with the family, and returned with the Eldest for her afternoon Art Class. When we got back to the Community Center, another home-school mom told me about a 40 year old man that fell over in the gym right after we left for home. Another one of the moms tried to do CPR for the first 10 minutes and when the Fire Dept arrived, they worked on him for another 10 minutes. Sadly, there was no pulse for those 20 minutes. I don't know what happened to the man; he was transported to the hospital. He had come to the gym to shoot hoops with a friend on his lunch break. This friend was overheard calling the wife. Can you imagine getting the call? "There's been an accident. We think your husband might have had a heart attack. The paramedics are working on him right now and they will be taking him to the hospital in a few minutes. You need to meet us in the ER."
Of course we all talked about it... who wouldn't? We hugged and chatted and cried. We spent a few minutes really looking at each other drawing comfort from one another- because a man we didn't know, but who was sharing our small space, may have just passed.
It is an interesting experience to be that close to death. People have a strong urge to share and say things they might not otherwise say. It strips us bare and lays us open to be real and honest and emotional. We are allowed to come undone. A lot of people walk around just barely holding it together, me included most days. Death comes and out go our pretenses and inhibitions and we have permission to not hold it together anymore.

One of the moms, someone I have rarely spoken to, shared that she was planning an elaborate 40th birthday party for her husband next week. "Why can't we celebrate people we love more often? Why have I been to so many funerals this year and that's when I find out how this person has touched and changed people; when I learn that they influenced friends and strangers and helped make our world a beautiful place?" It's a shame. A crying shame. Why can't we celebrate people more? Why don't we break bread with friends more often and be intimate and vulnerable and tell people how much we love them? Why does it have to be a heart-felt truth whispered over a coffin when it should have been said days, months, years ago? When it could have made a difference? When it could have been received and appreciated? When it could have healed and reconciled and encouraged?

Don't wait. Please don't wait anymore. Go say what you need to say. Open yourself up and tell them. You know who it is. Please, please, please don't live with a regret. Say more. Do more. Share more. Laugh more. Hug more. Look in to your world's eyes and speak truth and love and hope and thanks. No more excuses. No more fears. Get over yourself and say what you need to say.

the muffins


The Eldest, the cruise director



The Middle, the comic relief



The Baby Jack, what can I say?

Saturday, April 5, 2008

Typical Day


So I was trying to figure out where my time goes. I thought, "hmmm, I will take note, clock in, log my time and see what today brings. Maybe I will have some clarification as to why my house is a wreck and my kids look like ragga-muffins (is that a word?)"
To begin, it is my fireman's day to "fight fires and save lives". His alarm goes off at 6:03am and he quietly showers, brushes his teeth, eats a quick bite of whatever he can find and leaves by 6:30am. He always kisses me good-bye. Sometimes this kiss begins my day and other mornings I can roll over and steal a few more minutes of sleep. This morning I rolled over... for 17 minutes. I heard Jack's heavy footsteps drop out of his bed and his door slam (the new skill: opening and closing doors). He ran in to my room and wanted up in my bed. Jack is not a snuggler, so once he is in my bed, I can kiss sleep good-bye. We rolled around and kissed each other and giggled- all the while I am shielding my face from his sudden, spontaneous head-butt game (the other new obsession). I have a serious phobia that he is going to break my nose or teeth.
Seven minutes later I am joined by the eldest child. She asks me to scoot over so she can snuggle on the opposite side of the bed from Jack. I think she shares my head-butt phobia. We try, unsuccessfully, to chat about her night and dreams while Jack is body slamming us. And guess who appears? My precious middle child. It's Saturday morning and they remind me that they didn't get to have our weekly Friday Night Movie Night since I shuffled them to kids-night-out at a local church. So I caved and turned on a few minutes of cartoons.
I rolled out of bed, leaving the three of them to duke it out. By now Jack has started sliding off of the bed and running to the end and climbing back in. Once on top again, he attacks the girls and I hear frustrated screams of panic and pain.
I quickly threw a nutritious breakfast of Honey-Nut Scooters (off brand Cheerios) and milk on to the table and snatched the kids out of the bed. Jack immediately started digging in and by the third spoonful had scooped the entire bowl on to his lap. I pulled off his soaking PJ pants and diaper, wiped up the sticky milk, and poured his second bowl. All the while I am hearing, "May I have orange juice? I need more milk. Mom, I don't want milk on my scooters, I want it in a cup. Do we have bananas? I wanted a bagel. Can I help make your coffee?" Oh, coffee. Good idea! So I filter water and pull out the coffee maker and load the filter... and realize, we are out of coffee beans. Not good. I debated a few minutes about running over to ask the neighbors for a coffee loan, prepared to plead on my knees, but I decide against it. After all, it is Saturday and they might, by chance, be sleeping in like the rest of the world.
Once the girls are settled in to eating their breakfasts, I realize Jack has been walking through the house with his second bowl of cheerios. So now I have little sticky-O's all over and when he sees me coming, he takes off running the opposite direction. Once I grab him, he angrily hucks the bowl on to the floor and whatever was left in the bowl goes all over the wall, floor, and nearest chair. So I get my second kitchen towel and start wiping up. By now the girls are finished and have vacated the table, leaving half-empty bowls of milk and scooters.
I start a load of laundry with the sopping towels and when I come back, the phone is ringing. My best friends is calling from Scotland and I start in to hashing out my week. Minutes pass I realize the house is too quiet so I go to look for the kids. I find the girls stripped down and dressing up as Native American Indians- loin cloths, ribbons with feathers, necklaces, and, best of all, black marker up and down each arm, leg, and all over their torsos. I ask my girlfriend to hold and explain that they have broken a rule and markers are for paper and not our bodies.
I grab the phone again and while chatting, begin to wonder where in the world Jack has gone off to. After a few minutes of looking, I spot a fresh trail of spilled milk and scooters and follow it to his room where I find him on his bed with both of sisters' empty bowls of breakfast. Third and fourth kitchen towel. Finally I kneel down to get one last bit and my foot slips in another kind of puddle left by the diaper-less dude. Fifth kitchen towel. Second diaper. It's 8:13am. (sigh)

Jack chases the girls through the house with fist fulls of trains and cars and hangers. He loves to make them squeal and aggravate them. I encourage them to go to their room and lock the door so he can't get in. Meanwhile I have a couch load of fresh laundry to be put away and I begin sorting and stacking and continue to talk to my friend. We are deep in conversation about life and love and things that matter and, being the multi-tasker that I am, I am putting clothes away and sweeping up the kitchen and dining room floors. When I come down the hall, I see Jack carrying my stack of previously folded kitchen towels, and you know by now how quickly I go through them. When he sees me coming he takes off, throwing them as he goes.
I re-fold the towels and put them away and go to find the girls in hopes that they will have the hearts to entertain him for a few minutes so I can at least complete on task today. I open their door to find a Panty Party going on. They are nude and have panties hanging from everything: pictures, light fixture, door and drawer knobs, blind pulls, bookshelves, bunk bed rungs and ladder, and each stuffed animal is dressed in a pair. My phone dies mid-conversation and I have another discussion with the girls about the broken rule of getting into their clothing drawers without permission. They begin cleaning up and I turn to find Jack.

He smells- it's his 9:35am BM, right on time. So I start a bath for him because that's the only thing to get him smelling like something other than a nursing home after the morning he has had. I hear the doorbell ring. I am still in my PJ's, all three kids are naked, the house is upside down, and it must be someone I don't know because someone I know would have just walked on in. So I hush them up and force them in to their rooms and peek around the corner and out the window. Perfect timing. It's the Jehovah's Witnesses that my fireman let in to our house the week before Thanksgiving. They stop by monthly and it's a guarantee their visit will come at the most inopportune time of the month (and my fireman always seems to conveniently be away from home). I realize I will have to turn them away (again), feeling like a mean, un-Christianlike person for denying them entrance. So instead of answering the door and explaining the illness of their timing, promising to relay their messages to my fireman once more, I admit that we hid out in the back of the house for the next 15 minutes until I was sure they were gone. Jack goes in to the bath and I find clothes for the girls. It's 9:57am.

I explain to the girls that when Jack wakes from his afternoon nap, if their room is picked up, we will go to the park. Excitedly they agree to the terms and begin straightening up. About this time I decide to write down a bit about my morning since I feel like it must be noon by now. I look at the clock on the piano- 1:45. Confused, I go to the kitchen and look at the clock- 4:15. I look at the clock on the stove and it says 10:17. What in the world? The five year old is following me around and starts giggling. I look at her and she stops giggling and innocently asks, "Momma, what time is it?" Is she trying to make me lose my mind?

I go to retrieve Jack from the bath and get him dressed. I lay him on my bed amidst another pile of clean laundry and he fusses and fights me over putting on his diaper. I turn on PBS and the Victory Garden is showing- excellent show. Jack settles down as if I had given him a tranquilizer. I wrap him in his blanket and leave to find the girls. They are organizing their dress up clothes. I feel it's a good moment to preheat the oven for lunch- another nutritious meal of frozen pizza. (I don't usually feed my kids this kind of food, but when the fireman is away for 24 hours, I have to cut corners. The way the morning was going, they were lucky to get food at all.)
After cleaning up the kitchen a bit from breakfast, I go to look for Jack and find him asleep on my bed. Hmmmm. Do I wake him or let him sleep? I opt for sleep and go back to getting lunch prepared. I take a minute to check email, return a couple of calls, and load the dishwasher. The girls filter in and out with tattling and tales of unfairness. I continue to remind them of our deal and they go back to picking up. I have no idea what time it is.

I would like to take a break now. I had a friend yesterday tell me that she can't wait for me to have older kids so I can understand how busy she is. She is a different kind of busy- running her kids around town, shuffling them from school to piano lessons, to track meets, to boyscouts, to art class. Yes, that's busy. But I have to admit that I don't feel sorry for her. (I say this in love because I know she reads this.) That sounds, honestly, a little relaxing. They can sit quietly and play their gameboys and wipe their own bottoms and noses. Wow- let's be honest, that's huge! And while in some ways I long for that kind of busyness, I am learning to enjoy what I have right now. While I was on the phone this morning, I would explain what was going on in my house and my friend would laugh at the craziness and chaos. It is laughable and I need to remember it more often. It is nuts around here and there will come a time before too long that I won't have to screech and fret over the messes- and that's kind of sad.
I need to spend more time celebrating these kids and their world and less time controlling and badgering. There are days I feel are on fast-forward and this is one of them. I haven't done much laughing today between the laundry and spills and body art. But really- could it be funnier?
So forget it. I am not going to write down any more of my day. Just reading through the first 4 hours answered my earlier questions. I am not spending any more time today cleaning up and feeling frustrated when find another sticky spot on the floor or step on another scooter, mashing it in to the carpet. I am going to the playground. And who knows? I might even bust out another nutritious meal from the freezer.

Thursday, April 3, 2008

Friends Forever


How many close friends can one person have? How many kindred spirits? How many soul mates?
I don't have the answer to this one. But when I try to count my friends on my hands, I run out of fingers.

I think of those who I have history with... who knew me when I had bad skin and 90's hair. I think of those who were at those milestones- recitals, graduations, marriage, births, moves. Outside of family, I am blessed to have three very close friends from as far back as high school and college days. It's good to have them to help me measure and keep perspective. I admit that I am not the best at keeping in touch. Time and distance can create a space too difficult to cover and the intimacy ebbs and flows. I thank them for tracking me and forcing me not to let go. They forgive me for forgetting their birthdays and anniversaries and I love them all the more for the grace they extend. It's the history that makes those relationships great and comfortable and safe. They have loved me through the ugly and beautiful. I can count on them when times are hard and days are dark. I can hold them in close intimacy because they are a constant. What we have is sacred.

I have friends in other parts of the country. Friends so many miles away and yet, they feel near. I know I could appear one day and all would go as if I had never left. Life creeps in and gets in the way and staying in touch and talking daily just isn't possible. And so I would like to take this opportunity to tell them now, if you think I have forgotten you and moved on, you are desperately wrong. I don't move on. I am here and aching for you and what we had. I miss our laughs and cries and joys and sorrows. I think of rainy days and junk food and Sesame Street and Sopranos. I remember job losses and miscarriages, depressions and illnesses. I miss hugs and habits and standing dates. These precious, sweet moments are held with fondness and won't be easily erased from memory.

When we moved to Tulsa, I felt a huge gap open up in my heart. I left deep running connections and I cried in earnest every day feeling overwhelming emptiness and grief. Gradually the crying spells became weekly, then monthly, and slowly I formed new connections. I am such a social person and quickly get attached. So here I am, three years later with a full plate and full heart again. My life is better because of the move. Perhaps it's in leaving that you find the realization of what you had. I can't wait to get back to Seattle. I think of it everyday, like the city itself is a good friend. It was. It is filled with unsurpassed beauty and food and coolness. And when I think of Seattle I imagine all the faces of friends and family waiting on us. It is home.

I have a confession: it would be with a heavy heart that I would move. I never wanted to love Tulsa; it was only a temporary landing place. But here are friends who have stolen my heart. Here is a fellowship and kinship unlike anything I have had before. It's an unconditional acceptance and support system.

I have definitely been hurt and learned lessons and had water run under my bridge. Although I struggle with getting over the hurt, I think I am stronger and have my eyes open wide and I am proceeding with caution. You live and learn, you fall down and get back up. I wish I could say I handle difficult situations with grace and love, but I don't. I wrestle and wrangle and stew and steam. I wonder all the time if it was me or them? I place the blame and then pick it back up and lug it around. I am not good at moving on. I am genuine and true; test me and you will know. Like I said before, I don't move on- so that means I am just left behind. There's the mystery. Sometimes I wonder if my coolness wore off? Or once she got to know me, there just wasn't enough to hold on to? Maybe I just wasn't worth it.
I digress.

I love girlfriends. There just isn't anything like having a good girlfriend. I am an open book and the book isn't always clean and it's rarely predictable. I am, what shall I say, unstable? I am like a roller coaster- sometimes I think I thrive on chaos- which is exactly NOT who I want to be. Thank God I have friends who are willing to come along for a ride with me. I am blessed beyond measure with friends who will support me, and through that support, stabilize me.

I found a friend not long ago who was just like me. I am quirky and eclectic and rarely find someone who shares my tastes. I have an turquoise ironing board for a table in my living room, for goodness sake. So when I walked in to her house and coveted everything in there, I knew I had stumbled on a kindred spirit. She was so vivacious and creative and it was a guarantee that she could pick out anything and I would want it. It was so fun to share and talk and brainstorm and exchange hilarities- until it wasn't. Isn't it funny when relationships just don't work out? And it always takes me by surprise- like a stalking cat sneaking up and attacking your leg. I was stunned and lamented over the shame and waste of it. I thought we were meant to be together.

I have three "older" friends. These women are not necessarily old enough to be my mom, but definitely not a product of my generation. They are mentors and significant contributors to who I am and who I am growing to be. I love them with a love I reserve for family. They are substitute-moms. I call them for advice and counsel and although they speak the truth at all times, it is always in love and with sincerity. They take me and love me just as I am. They hold me accountable and tell me when I am wrong. They don't ask more of me than I can give and understand I am trying my best. I am accepted, not for who they I hope I am or think I might, one day, become.
Because of their presence and influence, I am a better wife and mother, friend and sister, woman and individual. When I am in a confusing situation, I imagine what they would do if they were in my shoes. I don't always take the route I think they would choose because I am stubborn; they are infinitely more wise and generous. They extend grace and love and forgiveness more easily and quickly than I can tie my shoelaces. When I ponder who I am and what I want to be, I think of them and pray that I will be half of who they are: strong, beautiful, open, spirited, generous, wise, Godly women. Oh, I would be lost without them. They are a silent force I lean on and lean in to when the world falls in and I don't think I can take one more step. They are always ready with a pot of hot tea and time to sit at their table and listen with honesty and love. I can cry and they aren't frightened- they just hug me and stand me back up on feet, whispering blessings and encouragement over me. They know. They have been there. I feel so one-sided in these relationships- like a moocher. There is nothing I can possibly give back worthy of being called reciprocation. All I can give is myself and, as shocking as it is, they seem satisfied.

So here's to friends. Good friends. Friends that stick to you like bubble gum on the bottom of your favorite shoe. Thank you for loving and accepting me, just as I am.

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

Soundtrack


There are a very few songs I hear that could be the soundtrack to my life. I'm talking about the kind of music that when you hear it, no matter what you are doing, you want to close your eyes and imagine what your life would be like if you could do anything at that moment... what is the perfect day? What would you want playing in your helmet if you were on a motorcycle crossing Ireland? If you were having one of those "commercial" moments- rolling in the leaves with your kids, laughing and swinging them up over your head- what would be the music playing in the background?
I remember in college my best friend and roomate would wake up to the Somewhere in Time soundtrack- that was her music, her life. I never really understood her passion for it, but I would gladly play it for her because I understood how meaningful and personal our chosen life soundtrack is.
I was recently making a playlist for my husband's morning run. I was surprised when he told me it didn't matter about the beat or tempo- that's all that matters when I am running. He wanted music that made him want to fly, to live, to breathe deeply. He wanted "soundtrack" music. It was quite a task to choose music for someone else's track- I felt a huge and holy responsibility... sounds weird, I'm sure. When he returned from his run, he said that I had done well.

I am very moved by a song called, "Needle and Thread" by Sleeping at Last. I read about this song in one of my favorite books, "Cold Tangerines" and bought it immediately. I haven't quite figured out all the lyrics yet- meaning I can't belt it out as if I am the one on stage. But when I hear it I want to squeeze my kids and feel the wind in my hair. I want to be in the car with the windows down, going somewhere and looking forward to the next day. I feel a fullness and contentment. I feel closer to heaven.
I have been struggling to know what my purpose in life is. Why am I here and what am I suppose to be doing? A good friend reassured me a couple of weeks ago with "You, my dear, are a perfect example of being "fearfully and wonderfully made." Your problem is that you've been given so many talents that you feel like you are wasting them when they go unused for a time. They are really just dormant for now while you do God's really important work, which is raising a child who loves God (3 of them!)and loving your fireman. You are doing so well with the tasks God has given to you, and any discouragement you feel is not from God. " Thanks, girlfriend.
I have to remind myself that my life is a book. And like any book, there are chapters. I am in the middle of one of those chapters all about the other characters- shall I call it Character Development? Although I would like to say it's all about my kids and thier character, I have a feeling that when I am on the other side, it will be my character that has been developed.

I have recently come to some conclusions. I am suppose to sing and make music. I need it. I want it. I long for it. I don't feel like I need the performance as much as the sweat and preparation and passion. I don't need it like I need a hobby. I need it like I need air to breathe. I am not in it for the checklist of skills and accomplishment of learning another song. No, I want to throw myself in to feeling my body and heart and spirit singing for joy and love.
With that said, I am not able to begin a new chapter right now. I have to finish up this chapter before moving forward to the next one. So I need to pray for patience and timing and the continuation of great "soundtrack" music to come and fill my speakers and my house and my heart and life.

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Chapter One- Playtime


My Auntie C has this incredible knack for empowering parents. She can bring the whole "parenting" thing down to my level and compress loads of information in to tiny conversations. Every time I get off the phone with her, wiping my tears of frustration, I want to squeeze my kids a little harder and jump back in to the game.
On thing she always reminds me to do is play. Play with the kids, no matter what, just play. Playing is one of the ways to see in to our kids' hearts and thoughts. Play is how children learn about the world. And when you play with them, you learn lots about them and what they are thinking and experiencing. It is also a great time to form warm connection. There is tons of research and info about play and its importance. All you have to do is google "playing with your child," and you'll find some great info.
When Auntie encouraged me to take time- 15 minutes, twice a day to be exact- to actually sit down and just play with my kids, I rolled my eyes and thought, " yeah, big deal. like this is going to make some big difference." What was most surprising was that I had a very difficult time finding those 30 minutes a day to DO it! It was pretty pathetic that I couldn't find the time, especially when I was with them all day, every day. I have the good fortune to stay home with my three muffins, but what I do most of the time is shuffle them from room to room and place to place. What did I know of their little worlds? To be honest, not much. When I did take the time to sit and play, I heard a lot of what I say to them: in a minute, quit that, be nice, please be quieter. Wow.
I also noticed that they wanted to play baby a lot- not with a pretend baby, but wanting ME to be their baby and they are the momma. I would squirm and cry and ask for food and milk and they would hop to attention at the least little whimper. They wanted me. They wanted my attention and when they had it, they couldn't do enough nice things for me. I was rocked and loved and petted and I realized how much they love me and how little time I devote to just them. They were also showing me exactly how they wanted to be treated. I got the message loud and clear that play was my way of showing them how much I love them and how much I want to know and be a part of their world- not just a traffic cop and school teacher on the periphery of their life.
Really, if I can't be a part of their world now, why do I think I will be extended the invitation when they get older? I have to make time now or it will be too late and the door will close and playtime will be over.
Thanks Auntie C.