my love

When I think about the love I feel for my children I get choked up. My heart can't help but swell so tight the overflow comes out from my eyes. I would be lost without them. I wouldn't know what true love is.

And this is the hard part.

I try to imagine what they will be like when they grow up and what I will be like when I grow up. I pray that they will make right decisions and good choices. I want their mistakes to be few and inconsequential. I want their lifestyles to be vibrant and rich and full. I don't want them to have to struggle through tough times and heartbreaks. I want to know that they will be safe, always, and completely loved. I want to put them in a bubble. I want to freeze time.

But I can't know or do any of this. I can love them and teach them and train them the best that I can and that's all. My prayers will be offered and my songs sung over them. But life will whisk them away and the only thing left will be our heartstrings and memories.

As they grow and I watch them fall, I will grieve. There is nothing that would make my heart stop loving them. Nothing. Not even for a moment. These are my babies, my gifts, my angels. I will ache when I know they hurt. When they distance themselves from me, I will hurt. I will wonder if I missed something along the way- didn't seize a moment? missed a life lesson? forgot to tell them how much I love them? Because I am human, I will internalize and feel guilt when their life doesn't go the way I had dreamed.

I hope I will be able to gracefully let go. I hope that they will never be afraid of me. I want them near me always and even closer emotionally. I want honesty and openness and acceptance and security to flow back and forth.

My precious ones. Pieces of my heart taken without reservation or choice and walking around in this world. I am amazed by their beauty and intellect. I am overwhelmed by their drama and noise. I love their innocence and creativity and energy.

My babies.

summertime

The heat is rolling in earlier and earlier. My six a.m. walks are becoming increasingly more miserable as the thick blanket of humid heat silently descends, making me sweat and smell. I try to tell myself it will help me flush the toxins and yuck and that my sweatiness is a good sign that my metabolism is kicking up a notch.
But to be honest, I hate the heat. I don't like that by evening I have a headache from squinting all day. It's ten o'clock on a Sunday morning and I don't want to leave my house because it's already 85.

I wish it could be spring all year- or go from spring to fall and then back to spring. Extreme weather is just not for me- especially the heat.

On a brighter note, I harvested tomatoes this morning. I hated doing it since they are from the fireman's beloved plants and he is away, but I don't want to risk the squirrels taking off with them. I got about 10 red currant tomatoes, one yellow pear, and two Cherokee Purples. Now what shall I do with them?

The fireman is working 4 days, back to back. That means in 4 days he has worked 96 hours. That also means that I have been a single mom for 96 hours straight. Thankfully, I have had some company here and there and for that, my children should be very grateful. I am just so tired today and wish I could crawl in to bed and be alone.

I was trying to think of when was the last time I did something alone for me. I will occasionally run to the grocery store alone or pick up a birthday gift for someone. But for me to take off and do whatever I want just doesn't happen. I wish I could have a few hours a week to just sit and stare at the walls- not cleaning or doing laundry. Just sit in peace. I feel bombarded and emptied out. I am spent.

I will close for now. I have so much rolling around in my head I don't even know where to begin. I need to process things, but can't really pull my thoughts together enough to form thoughts or opinions. So instead, I am going to load the kids into the 400 degree car and go for a ride.

freegan followup

So here's the scoop.
We got nothin'.

I can't tell you what a weird excitement I felt all day. I was actually giddy about jumping in to garbage. And then it was such a let down! I didn't cry or anything, but I admit that I felt mildly depressed for a couple of days.
In my craziness I pictured us bringing home more food than we could possibly consume as a family. So much that I could share it with others.
We met up at my house, decked out in camouflage and rubber gloves. I brought along Lysol and wipes. We brought lots of plastic bags and a big stick with a hook on it in hopes it would save us from actually having to jump in to the dumpsters to just shift bags around. We headed straight for Whole Foods. As with all the major grocery store chains, we found that their dumpster actually backs in to their building. Whole Foods does compost all fresh produce and donates left over bread and expired canned goods (that's the good news). So from there we hit restaurant dumpsters and a few small bakeries and grocery chains.
The youngest (and most limber) of our threesome did most of the actual "diving". (If and when we do this again, she is totally on our team again!) Our fearless friend would just hop on in if there was even a hint of buried treasure. I would try to hold up the occasional lid and direct her to promising-looking bags.
We got away with very little mishap, except for a small cut and singed nose hairs. We were offered dinner by a mildly attractive male- which came to nothing since we lamely explained it was a sorority dare.
In the end, we hit close to 25 dumpsters and spent probably $1000 in gas. Our "big score" were three teeny-weeny snack bags of Keebler Pecan Sandies- the 100 calorie diet ones for goodness sake. And they were our of date. As darkness fell we began to feel desperate... so when we found a dumpster full of boxes, we took some. Boxes. Yes, boxes. I guess I can organize some closets or something.

Although the bounty of the evening turned out to be non-existent, it was surprisingly super fun. We laughed a ton and cried together as the disgusting stench hit our nostrils. It is amazing to think that people do this, not as an experiment or adrenaline rush, but out of necessity. As the night wore on and our spirits took a dive, two of us began to complain a little. I was totally hit head on when our third friend quietly said, "hey, if we were homeless and hungry we would be ecstatic about these three little bags of cookies." At that moment I felt a wave of gratitude that my existence didn't depend on regular trash digging. And you know what else? I was also hit with the realization of how many friends I have. I had many phone calls from concerned friends leading up to the evening of scavenging. Were times really this hard? Did I truly need to trash dig to provide food for our kids? Did I need money? I tried to explain that it wasn't out of need, but out of concern for all the needless waste going in to our earth. But that night, as I thought about how thankful I was, I thought of all my friends who would step in in a moment if my motive shifted and we became hungry.
So I take it back. The evening was not bounty-less. Actually, it was overflowing with gratitude and friendship and adventure.
Would I do it again? Absolutely.

freegan

have I mentioned how much I love recycling? I mean, it is so cool to get super cool stuff for free or next to nothing. I love to thrift store shop and garage sale. My neighbor makes fun of me when he hears I dug something out of the trash or picked it up off the curb. Hey, it's one less thing in the landfill.
So I am beginning a new adventure this week. I have to be honest, I am a little nervous. But times are hard and desperate times... well, you know. So tomorrow night I will become a freegan. I don't know if this is the beginning of a weekly ritual or just a one time deal. Either way, I am going with two girlfriends and we are hoping to score big- and praying for safety and zero smackdown.
It makes me excited to think I could find free food- good food, for nothing. Well, not nothing. I think at first it will be a weird pride thing if I get caught and in trouble for digging in someone's dumpster. But it will also be a sweet rush of adrenaline. And a fun memory too.

I am sure I will write about it, either way. And as to my neighbor... I will try to sneak a bit of dumpster food in to our next dinner together- just to weird him out.

Chapter Four: Never Say "Never"

This is huge. And simple. Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it. Don't even think it. Never.

Have I mentioned we are a home-school family? This probably conjures up all sorts of images. I know for me, I thought home-schooling was ludicrous. I remember rolling my eyes when people I knew decided they were going to home-school their kids. What were they thinking? Really? With little difficulty I would pass judgement and swear that I would never, never, never, never home-school my kids. I think I actually said one time, "I have NO time for that."
In my mind, there are certain kinds of people who home-school. And I am certainly not that kind. And there are certain people who claim to home-school and do no such thing. Unfortunately, I think our media latches on to the failures all too often. So our view of kids who are learning at home is skewed. I fell for the hype and planted my feet firmly in the camp of Anti-Home-School. I mean, how could kids who learn at home have any kind of social skills or opportunities for pursuing passions their parents deem as inappropriate or unimportant? Wouldn't those kids be short-changed and too sheltered? How would they learn that the whole world doesn't revolve around them? How would they learn how to take tests and acclimate into a university environment? And what makes these parents think they are qualified to teach their children anyway? I mean, come on people.

And, I am so not in to denim skirts and buns.

So there we have it. Never.

Never, never, never, never, never.

I was not one who desired kids. Kids fell into the group of things that I also had "no time for." I had this picture of myself, married, living a downtown life, doing what I pleased when I pleased. Odd how life works out. And even more of an oddity how life shifts and spins and shakes when a little dumpling pops in to your world and makes you a family, instantly. The fireman and I ran on adrenaline and love for the first few months and our conversations were serious and deep and searching. We relied on our instincts and faith as we parented our baby. We dreamed out loud, together, about what our life should look like and how we wanted our baby girl to see and experience the world. We longed for the day we would hear her first words and the thought of actually carrying on a conversation with her made us giddy. These were days of joy and innocence and dreams and love.

And as our family has changed and grown we have continued the conversations. The difference now is that these conversations must end with decisions, however difficult and dramatic. Our choice to try schooling Maggie at home came with much debate and anxiety. I felt totally incompetent and exhausted, unsure of how I would manage one more thing in my already packed days. I know some people close to us thought we were crazy and foolish and to be honest, I thought the same thing. I dragged my feet and made all the excuses. But, in the end, we evolved into a home-school family. Once again, we are following our instincts and taking steps in faith.
And I am not too proud to admit, the first few weeks were disastrous. Every fear and suspicion was confirmed as, day after day, both Maggie and I became more miserable. I felt tense and she could feel it. I began to dread the afternoons and she knew it. Her excitement soon turned to tears. As weeks turned in to months we began to question ourselves and second-guess our decision.
The fireman would fill in as tutor every so often. But his inability to relate to her level and intolerance for her unfocused and spastic behavior only left him despairing and angry. By the end of his turns, he was questioning if she had some serious learning disability or if she was dyslexic. I couldn't imagine where we would go from here. I felt like we had killed her spirit to learn and we would never be able to create a positive learning environment again. Our good intentions were just not enough to sustain any sort of momentum and I gradually slacked off until it was over. We were done. I couldn't handle it any more. I was tired of feeling frustrated with her and tired of making her feel like a failure.

What was wrong with us? We are relatively intelligent people. We love her and want the best for her. We know what school should look like. Why is this experience so dreadful and different from what we had envisioned? What is wrong with her?

Our Thanksgiving break turned in to a four month hiatus. When someone asked how school was going, I would smile and quickly try to change the subject. There were only a select few who knew the whole truth and how seriously we had failed Maggie. These friends would gently urge us forward, encouraging us to start again, slowly. Our enthusiasm needed to outweigh the information. School time needed to be brief and fun.
Luckily, in Kindergarten, there are few benchmarks to meet. She needed to know how to read. That's it. By the time we decided to jump back in, enough time had passed that I think she had forgotten the traumatic afternoons of the previous Fall. We switched reading curriculum and rewarded her with stickers for attention spans lasting longer than five minutes. She loves nature and art, so we centered the school time around being outside and cutting and pasting. She started feeling successful and I began to see progress. First Grade is just around the corner and our curriculum should arrive this week- and, who knows? Our school year just might start next week.

There are many, many reasons we home-school. I take great delight in seeing something "click" in her head. I love hearing her sing about feudalism and Hiroshima. I think it's amazing that she can find Turkmenistan and the Adriatic Sea on the globe. I think it is so cool that I can ask her when was the Renaissance Period and who came first in the Protestant Reformation, Martin Luther or John Calvin? I hang up her art work and wish I could keep it all. But aside from all of this, I love being with her. I love that I can see how and when she learns best. I want to answer her questions about how our world works and came to be. I can talk to her about integrity and responsibility and teach her how to crack an egg while singing the sixth chapter of Ephesians. I love that she asks me to do "school" now.
I do want to shelter her. I think her innocence and purity of heart and childhood are mine to protect. I think it's my job to know who her friends are and who her friend's parents are. I want to protect her from the ugliness and dangers of our world and as she matures, give her the skills and perspective to handle difficulties she will inevitably face. I want her to be courageous and wise. I want her to love her individuality and be comfortable with who she is and what she believes to be truth. The sweetness and wonder of youth is easily stolen and replaced with boredom and apathy and stress. This is why I am a home school mom.

I know it's not for everyone and I am definitely not advocating it as an obligation of all parents. My point is this: never say "never." You can't begin to foretell what will tumble and topple the things you think you know.

I'm back

in so many ways.

I am back to the blog- oh how I have missed you.

We are back from a whirlwind trip to the Shriners Children's Hospital in St Louis. Although it can be grueling to sit in the car with a cranky two year old for 16 hours over two days, every mile was worth it to receive a good report. Finally the Baby Jack is responding favorably to his medications. Finally.

We went back to church. In all honesty, the fireman and I were shamed in to it. We have been on a church hiatus for about 6 months, although mentally I checked out over a year ago. I had too much rolling inside of me that all I could do was take a break with hopes that time and distance would take away feelings. My two little girls have been asking for church for weeks, nagging at us to go back. You can only push them away so long before it gets ridiculous. So after a long conversation with them, we started back. Thankfully, I feel better now so the transition is easier.

Lately I have felt like there has been this huge hand on me, guiding me. I don't feel it in the moment, but when I lay down at night and close my eyes, I realize what's been going on. It's like I am a drunk, trying to walk the line, and a friend is beside me, pushing me back on to the line when I fumble and fall over.
I was just reading "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert. Interesting read. I think my favorite line was, "God dwells within you, as you." She goes on to explain, "God dwells within you as you yourself, exactly the way you are. God isn't interested in watching you enact some performance of personality in order to comply with some crackpot notion you have about how a spiritual person looks or behaves. We all seem to have this idea that, in order to be sacred, we have to make some massive, dramatic change of charatcter, that we have to renounce our individuality." When the fireman and I go on road trips I always find myself reading aloud. When I got to this part, I was greatly moved. It lead us into a lengthy discussion as to why I found so much truth and meaning in these simple sentences.
For me, always grasping and comparing, measuring and coming up inadequate, I saw that God is not calling me to change my character, my weirdness, my passionate nature. God created me, as me. He asks that I remain true to my nature, living out the best within me in generousity, compassion, and love. He isn't asking me to become something totally different than who I am. Sometimes I feel like a square peg trying to fit into a circle- and it never works out... and all I feel is frustration. But this is some cooky circle I conjured up for myself. I have this list of who I think I should be: a list of the best of the best- pulling from people I know and admire. And I constantly measure myself against others and this crazy, out of control list. And guess what? I never measure up.
So reading this helped me cut myself a break. I have to believe that God takes great delight in me when I am living as me. He created me while I was in my mother's womb and set aside each day for me before even one of them came to be. He chose the angels to be birthed from my body- He chose me to be their mommy. He orchestrated my years and months and weeks and moments. He brought treasured friends to hold me up and push me on. Yes, I think He rolls His eyes at my quirks. And He has to just want to "huck me out the window" sometimes in exasperation. But, at the end of the day, He does quiet me with His love and sing over me while I sleep. Me, as me.

If God had wanted me to be everything on my perfect list, He would have made me this way. "Useful, then, might be to accept how I was made and embody myself fully therein." So as EG says, "It doesn't mean I can't improve myself as a human being, honing my virtues and working daily to minimize vices" But instead of trying to fit myself in to some hole I wasn't created to fill, I need to work on my habits and alter some aspects of who I already am for the better- working within my personality- not the personalities of everyone I know and the stupid list. God must feel insulted sometimes at my ingratitude and self importance. As the most perfect and holy artist, to have me, trying to redo His whole picture.

So I am back to reality... or so it seems.

rainbows

I am in a funk.

For some reason the rain which usually refreshes my spirit and fills me up a bit is just making me feel really sad. I feel sad and lonely. I feel an emptiness, like I have been away from home for a long, long time. I am sitting here at my desk with the windows open and I can smell, hear, and see the rain. I could just reach out and let it run through my hands. It is beautiful, but in a mysteriously abandoned kind of way; like it could rain forever and wash away the world.

I feel uneasy and aimless. I don't have any real goals. I think about a lot of things but rarely make decisions. I have become a really bad decision maker. I would just rather not have to decide what to cook, when meet up, where to go. I am just too tired to care most of the time.

Have I mentioned that I am mostly grey? I have so much grey hair it's crazy. I look at my roots with dismay and wonder what is going on in my body that I don't know about. What kind of stress is manifesting itself in my bones, muscles, skin, and hair?

I have returned to the old, comfortable habit of living for tomorrows. Tomorrow things will be better, happier, shinier. Tomorrow my house will have sold, my zinnias will have bloomed, my house will be clean, I will be able to afford a break. Tomorrow I will be ready to take care of my body, lose weight, meditate, be still.

I feel like I need a good cry and a soft lap to curl up in. I need the comfort of a mom who will pet me and let me cry it out like am little kid who has just broken her favorite toy. I don't want someone to feel like they need to fix me. I want to fix myself. But I can't fix me today; I won't even try. I just need to cry like I am going to cry out every last drop.

I was thinking of a time when I felt most loved. It was a few days before my Maggie's birth. I was with my Auntie C. I stayed the night with her and woke up to the smell of blueberry buckle fresh from the oven. The windows were open and the Pacific Northwest breeze was making the curtains dance in the sunshine colored room. We ate the delicious buckle for breakfast and then walked a few blocks to her sweet friend's house. I was gently ushered upstairs to her massage room filled with soothing music and gorgeous, crazy sculptures. I quietly undressed and laid on my side surrounded by pillows. The room was dimly lit and I tried very hard to relax. I felt heavy.
My Auntie and her friend came in. They both laid their hands on me and silently poured love in to me. Then the friend began massage work. The pressure of her hands, the stillness of the room, and the quietly whispered words of encouragement and peace, the silent prayers offered for me- it was like I was breathing in pure love. I began to cry. I admitted to my fears of pain and failure. I heard their tender, compassionate groans, "yes, yes, yes", saying that they understood. They called me "brave" and "precious" and "strong". Wherever the friend stood working, my Auntie stood opposite, smoothing, caressing, holding me. They allowed me to cry it out and didn't try to change me. They weren't afraid of me and didn't ask me to stop or hush. I had permission to feel deeply and pour myself out; and I was filling up as quickly as I was emptying.
When the time came, they stood on either side of me and just laid hands on me. I felt the warmth. I knew, in their own ways and with silent words, they were fervently praying over me, interceding for me. And as quietly as they came in, they left me there. I wept. I was flooded with relief and courage and peace. I had never felt so whole and healed.

I recently finished a good book. There a was chapter that made me think of this experience. Traveling Mercies. "'Traveling Mercies,' the old people at our church said to her when she left. This is what they always say when one of us goes off for a while. Traveling mercies: love the journey, God is with you, come home safe and sound." Anne Lamott goes on to write about the death of a friend. "I walked in to their houe at nine, into this wooden palace as familiar to me as my own childhood home, the walls covered with framed photos I've been looking at for thirty-some years... Bee's eyes were red from crying, the brown irises clouded with sun damage from our tennis years. We walked hand in hand down the hallway to where Mimi lay asleep on her bed, breathing in the loud labored way that means the end is near. Bee and I talked for a moment, and then she sat in the chair beside the big bed, holding her mother's hand, and I lay down beside Mimi, because she was the most gregarious woman I've ever known, flamboyant and loving as the Broadway stars she loved, and she seemed a little lonely. Bee held Mimi's hand to her face and her chest; I stroked Mimi's shoulders and smoothed her hair. We talked to her the way you talk to a sleepy child too troubled to fall asleep. We whipsered that we loved her. We told her over and over that we would stay with her as long as she needed but that when she was ready, we were also willing to let her go. And that she was safe, with God here now on this side, and in a moment with God on the other. Traveling mercies, I whispered in her ear. We said prayers softly...and we lit candles, and held Mimi lightly so she could take off when she was ready. The space between each breath became longer and longer, until an hour later there was all space, and she died... It was just such a blessing to have been there helping Bee bathe her mother's body with beautiful soaps, smooth her skin with lotions, working as thoroughly and gently as Mimi must have done forty-three years ago, when Bee had just been born."

I wish for a bed of hands and whispers when it's my time to leave this world. Until then, I want to love deeply with my words, my hands, and my heart. This love- it's the rainbow in our gloomy, soggy world.