From the Corner of My Couch

Small things

2012-02-15T21:18:00.003-05:00

It’s okay. Sound it out with me. This letter O makes the long oooohhhh sound. Here we go. Hh. Oh. Pp. H-oooohhhh-p. H-oohh-p. Hope. Excellent!

I drive across town once a week to a school in a neighborhood where most of us wouldn’t want to live. Small, dilapidated homes. Front yards without grass. Broken down cars parked on the streets.

When I walk into Mrs. Jones’ first grade class, nineteen hands shoot into the air. “Me! Me! Me!” they cry. A few kiddos run over and wrap their arms around my legs. “Can I read with you today?” I hug them and stroke their heads. “Ask Mrs. Jones, sweetie,” for I know that during the next ninety minutes, only a few names will be called - the ones who are struggling the most, the ones who need the greatest help. I wish I could stay all day and read with every single one.

I never, ever, EVER had even a hint of a desire to be a teacher. I know myself. I don’t have the patience. I have enormous respect for teachers and all they juggle. I’m not that good. Believe me, you don’t want me teaching your kids. Here’s an honest confession: Kids make me crazy. Especially other people’s kids. I was a horrible babysitter. And once I was a mom, I sweated through playdates. I’m just not a kid-person.

But I love these first graders. And I’m only there for an hour and a half every week, and I’m not responsible for their grades or their discipline, and I don’t have to deal with their parents. I’m only there to help them learn how to read. I could never work as a teacher, but I know phonics, and I taught my three kids how to read. This I can do.

Most of the kids in Mrs. Jones’ class come from bilingual families - or families who don’t speak English at all. Many of their parents can’t read themselves - much less help their kids learn how to read. And with nineteen kids in her class, Mrs. Jones can only do so much. So I do this one little thing. It’s not much. But it’s something.

One at a time, they come to me, and we sit together on a giraffe print rug next to a stuffed leopard, a stuffed gorilla, and a tall potted palm tree. These kids - they are funny. One little girl can breeze right through a word like beautiful and then stumble on a simple word like they. Another one will sweat and grunt sounding out each letter for several minutes until at last she gets it! I congratulate her for not giving up, for sticking with it, for working it out, and she grins. We turn the page, continue reading, and the same word will stump her again, so we start over, slowly sounding out each letter. When she finally finishes and we close the book, I reach into my bag and pull out sheets of stickers - shiny butterflies, puffy hearts, silly monkeys, superheroes. She studies them carefully, considering each one, until she finds the sticker that completes her. She may stick it on her hand, or on her shirt, or perhaps on her pencil box.

After listening to Frog & Toad stories for an hour and a half, I leave Mrs. Jones’ class and walk down the hall to Mr. Rivera’s class, where I knock on the door and greet Jesus. Not that Jesus. Hey-Soos. He’s a quiet nine year old boy who loves soccer and the Texas Rangers. He ducks his head and silently slips out of the classroom, trying desperately not to be noticed. But as soon as the door closes behind us and we start walking down the hall, he lights up and tells me about his soccer game last weekend or his favorite baseball player. We usually work on math together, which is hilarious considering my loathing for numbers. His workbook wanted him to distinguish the differences between the associative and communicative properties of addition. Seriously. Somewhere deep, DEEP in the vast recesses of my memory, I used to know the answer. But that was before my children stole all my brain cells and pooped on them. I had to ask the reading specialist for the answer.

In between the fractions and simple division, Jesus and I simply hang out together. I told him something during one of our first visits together, which he occasionally repeats to me unprompted. I can do hard things, he tells me, and I tell him yes, you can! and we high-five. He picks out a sticker - baseball, usually - and I walk him back to class, rub his head, tell him I’ll see him next week. He quietly ducks his head and walks to his desk, trying to be invisible.

But truly, I think these kids teach me more than I teach them. Perseverance. Tenacity. Joy in small victories. The kids remind me that everyone has a story. That everyone struggles. That everyone deserves a chance, deserves value, deserves love. That no one is forgotten.

And I see myself in them. How I can learn a good lesson one minute and forget it the next. How some of the most difficult things come easily to me while I simultaneously struggle with the most simple. How a small reward can make my day.

It’s not much, this thing I do each week. It’s a droplet of water in a very large ocean of hope and mercy and humility. It is one drop combined with other drops combined with more drops that wash us clean. That tell us people are good, the world is good, God is good. It is faith working its way outward into the lives of the forgotten, the neglected - the ones with strikes already set against them, the ones with stories not yet written. It is planting seeds that will bear fruit I may never see - fruit that will bear seeds that will bear fruit that will bear seeds. It is sitting down and playing my instrument in God’s ongoing symphony.

This thing I do each week, it’s not much. But I keep playing, keep planting, keep learning. With every seed, with every note, God breathes.

And it is good.

Forgetting the Alamo

2012-02-06T18:57:00.000-05:00

I suck.

No, I mean it. I am a lousy wife, a lousy mom, a horrible friend, and a worthless writer. That, and I think God rolls His holy eyes at me like you would do when your crazy Aunt Louise farts at the Thanksgiving table. That Aunt Louise, you think. I love her, but good grief - here we go again…

Have I told you that I am a direct descendent of a soldier who fought at the Alamo? For the Mexican army? My grandmother told the story many times, but she was a little nuts, so no one completely believed her. Sure enough, last year a cousin of a cousin of a cousin pulled together a genealogy with all kinds of letters and records, and there he was, smack dab in the middle of the family tree. Grandpa Ravia.

If you’ve ever studied Spanish, you know that the Spanish ‘v’ is pronounced like an English ‘b.’ Ravia sounds like Rabia. As in “rabid.” As in Cujo. You see what I’m dealing with here.

He fought at the Alamo, surrendered after the Battle of San Jacinto, and was miraculously converted to a full-blooded Texas loyalist. He then married a crazy Irish woman with a wandering eye (and I don’t mean exotropia), fathered a beautifully creative son, and was later shot and killed by his brother-in-law. Talk about your family drama.

Therein lies my rich, creative, hot-headed blood.

My family has a serious case of you-don’t-know-how-good-you-have-its. Which, I suppose, is good news because each generation removed from the Ravias is slightly less crazy than the one before. We screw up our children not quite as badly as our parents screwed us up. But still. There is a lot of screwing up going on. Michael and I remind ourselves that we have a college fund, and we have a therapy fund. At this point, I’m not sure which will cost us more.

Especially after I spend a lovely afternoon on my back patio, studying the book of James - specifically “be slow to speak, quick to listen, slow to anger” - walked inside, and screamed at my ten year old for not doing what I told him to do.

Like I said, I suck.

But do I stop there? Oh, no. Later that evening, I continue my rant because two of my three darlings don’t like salmon, I prepared salmon, they protested the salmon, and no one seems to care that I bust my tail every day to keep them alive and healthy.

Suck. Sucky, sucky, sucky, suck.

And this whole writing gig? I stare at my computer, and NOTHING. I’ve got nothing. No inspiration, no words of encouragement and humor and light. Nothing. I’m wondering if I buried the treasure for too long and the land owner is demanding its return.

Maybe I could take up knitting.

I’m just frustrated. I’m wallowing in a pit of self-loathing. I hate to wallow. I hate the pit.

I hate myself.

This is so not cool.

In an effort to hate myself a little less, I apologized to my children for being mean and disrespectful - the same qualities I try to hammer into them on a daily basis. I vow to give myself time-outs. I will shut my mouth. I will pray and search and beg for light and goodness and compassion. And words. I will beg for words to write. And I will show up and write.

We're more successful when we live as who God says we are rather than trying to prove what we are not. I will only be who I want to be when I believe and act like who God says I am - not who I’m trying to prove myself to not be. God says I am treasured and loved and redeemable. He says I’m worth it. Instead of fixing my mind on those positive facts, I’m guilty of wasting energy trying to prove that I am not my father - and in focusing only on who I don’t want to be, I become exactly that. Which is seriously annoying.

I’m guessing maybe I’m not the only one who has bathed in a muddy pit of self-loathing. Maybe I’m not alone in hating the person who, on occasion, bursts out of my skin and reveals the ugliness lying beneath the surface.

Let’s step out of the pit, my sister, and hose each other off. Let’s wash off the muck with a loofah and sweet-scented shower gel. Let’s clothe ourselves with big, fluffy bathrobes. White. Let’s remind each other of the truth - we are loved, we are valuable, we are good. We make mistakes, but our mistakes are reparable. We can start over. God may roll His holy eyes, but He’s still crazy about us. About you. About me. We still bring Him joy. He’s still proud of us. He still wants to breathe life into our fragile flesh and create something new, something good, something with purpose. Let’s fix our eyes on that - who we want to be, not the mess from which we’re running.

It’s time to not remember The Alamo.

You are more than the choices that you’ve made

You are more than the sum of your past mistakes

You are more than the problems you create

You’ve been remade.

The Rules of the Roller Coaster

2012-01-23T09:44:00.006-05:00

This is what motherhood feels like today:

My child, standing on a table in the middle of the school cafeteria, surrounded by friends, parents, and teachers, and screaming:

HI EVERYBODY! GUESS WHAT? I HAVE NO MANNERS, NO SELF-CONTROL, AND NO SOCIAL BOUNDARIES! I AM RUDE AND CRUDE AND INAPPROPRIATE! AND SEE THAT LADY OVER THERE? LOOK! THAT’S MY MOM! AND IT’S ALL HER FAULT!

And, cowering in a corner, I lift my hand and meekly wave. Please don’t look at me. I’m trying to achieve invisibility.

(By the way, this scenario is completely allegorical. I’d be writing to you from jail if it really happened.)

Just when I thought we were doing so well. Isn’t that the way it always goes? Pride before the fall and all that. One day, they’re writing thank-you notes and asking “may I please?” and loading the dishwasher. The next day, you’re getting emails from your child’s teacher and sitting down for a come-to-Jesus conference with your inconsolable six year old.

Hold on a sec - I need another Girl Scout cookie. Or seven.

Parenting is such a roller coaster. It’s bumpy and scary and exhilarating. Also it occasionally makes you want to vomit. It drives you crazy, but you keep getting up in the mornings and getting back on that ride because you have to. And some days you want to. Other days you want to pull the covers over your head and ignore all the cries for snacks and help and homework and sibling justice. You want to be the two year old who covers her eyes because she thinks that if she can’t see you, you can’t see her. You want to be invisible. You want all of these little people to go away.

But, of course, they don’t. And you really don’t want them to. Not really. At least most of the time. So you jump back in and attempt to steer their little rear ends in the right direction. Again. Sometimes they do what they know is right. Sometimes they don’t. So you redirect. Again. And you hope that they get it. You hope that someday they will make good, responsible choices and grow to be fine, upstanding, respectful, hard-working adults who can hold down a job and come home to little people just. like. them.

As adults, we have conformed to certain social rules. We know what is acceptable and appropriate. We know good manners. Then we have children. Free, uninhibited, exuberant children. And our job as parents is to rein in the little suckers and teach them to conform to The Rules. It is their job to embarrass the snot out of us as they learn - and test - The Rules.

Why is parenting such an embarrassment? Because we think that children should pop out of the womb already knowing The Rules, and when they prove the contrary, we think that everyone else thinks that we have failed as parents.

So I propose that somebody invent a microchip to install into the brains of every newborn. Programmed within this microchip are The Rules.

You do not scream, whine, cry, or threaten in a check-out line.
You do not scream, whine, cry, or threaten in ANY public place.
Private body parts are just that. Private. They are not for touching, kicking, looking at, talking about, singing about, or publicly adjusting.
You wait your turn to speak and do not interrupt.
When Mama is on the potty, you wait until she is done before you ask her any question, make any request or observation.
Same goes for when she is on the phone.
Clean up your own mess. If you spill it, wipe it up. If you get it out, put it away. If you open it, close it. To expect someone else to do your job is the epitome of disrespect.
Do not verbalize every thought in your head - most especially your observation of the very nice lady’s weight standing next to you.
If you overhear a conversation about something or someone, you do not share that information with that someone.
Do not sing out loud any song containing the word “sexy,” “booty,” or any derivative of any similar word.
Do not pick your nose, fart, burp, or stick your hand in your armpit to attempt a replication of such noise in the presence of anyone who is not immediate family - especially your grandmother. And in the presence of immediate family, keep those noises to a minimum - and NEVER at the table.
Flush.
If something messy, sticky or stinky is on your hands, do not wipe it on the wall.
Always, always, ALWAYS say “thank you for the ride” whenever anyone takes you anywhere - even if your friend’s mom takes you to school in her pajamas and runs late. ALWAYS say “thank you.”

This is a preliminary list for the microchip prototype. Feel free to leave a comment and add your own contribution to The Rules. I'll pass it along.

And if your child is under the age of three, I can read your mind, and you are absolutely right. Your child will NEVER break any of these rules because obviously you are a much better mother than I am.

{snort}

For the rest of us, we realize that good parenting means guiding our children out of their natural self-centeredness. Children are loving, compassionate, affectionate balls of light - but they are also nasty, egocentric little suckers who need some refinement. Every one of The Rules teaches our kids to take another person's feelings and needs into consideration. To value someone else more than yourself. To look outside yourself. That's all we're doing.

Buckle up, ladies. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.

Lessons from the trashcan

2012-01-13T15:44:00.007-05:00

Seventeen years ago - Friday, January 13^th- Michael asked me a question. I said yes. Then I threw up.

Eleven months and sixteen {very long} days later, I sat on a stool in an enormous white gown, waiting for my cue. And I threw up. Thankfully my mother read the lead-in signals correctly and grabbed a trashcan. A very beautiful, painted, bride’s-room trashcan. We realized years later that no one ever cleaned it out. So to the custodian of that particular church, I profusely apologize for my nervous stomach and my inconsideration. I was a little distracted.

But at least my vomit made it to the trashcan. Thinking about the alternative launches me into a burst of loud humming to drown out the mental picture.

With the birth of each child came more vomit. Poor Nathan took it on the head. It’s just how we roll. Significant life experience yields stomach content emergence.

Today is another Friday the 13^th. And I am sitting at home with my six year old mini-Michael, who is throwing up. Strange twist of irony, no? He’s marking this significant day with his own projectiles. Maybe it’s revenge for throwing up on his head when he was six hours old.

My dear friend, Caroline, told me recently about a miraculous regimen she follows every time one of her kids has a stomach bug. Her friend’s doctor told her friend, who told Caroline, who told me - which is why I was texting her at 11:00 last night to get the specifics in writing. Or texting. Whatever.

Here it is:

After vomit, wait one hour. Then give one teaspoon of Gatorade (not red or orange), wait fifteen minutes, one more teaspoon of Gatorade, repeat at that pace for one hour. Then increase Gatorade to two teaspoons every fifteen minutes. At this point, you can also interchange ice water with the Gatorade. Then, as long as he isn’t pale or listless, after eight hours of no vomit, start the BRAT diet (bananas, rice, applesauce, toast) in very small servings. Wait an hour or two, then give him five or six crackers. Then wait another hour or two before giving any more food - BRAT only. Continue giving two teaspoons of Gatorade/ice water every fifteen minutes throughout the day. Twenty-four hours after the last vomit, progress to a modified BRAT diet, including yogurt with cultures and dry cereal.

Voila. Miraculous healing. And no more vomit.

Caroline warned me not to deviate. When she has deviated, she said, she ends up with a face mask and bucket of soapy water. For the love of all that is fragrant and sanitary, do not deviate! No matter how he whines and protests or even if he is jumping on the furniture and acting completely healthy. Do not give in.

Try telling that to a six year old. I’m huuuuungwy! I’m thuuuuuhsty! Can’t I have just a little bite of cheese! I want some gwanooooolaaaaa!

Baby, if Mama let you eat granola, then two of us would be hugging the potty. Because Daddy is at work, and Mommy has an evil sense of smell and a hypersensitive gag reflex, and Daddy is the official vomit cleaner-upper, so since he’s not here, we cannot deviate.

He needs to trust me on this one.

We have some close friends who are in the middle of a big mess - similar to the one we were in several years ago. God led them to a specific decision, they faithfully prayed and followed and trusted and obeyed - then the whole thing went an entirely different, unexpected direction. What do you do with that?

Caroline herself has quite a story, and she’s still writing it. Life doesn’t make sense. God doesn’t make sense. What do you do with that?

What do you do when you’re stuck on Saturday - between the awful and the miraculous?

I know what I want to do. I want to stomp my feet and shake my fists and sneak into the pantry and grab some granola.

But that would be bad. Very, very bad. Vomit kind of bad.

So you stay the course. You don’t deviate. You sip Gatorade and nibble on a banana until the stomach virus surrenders. You trust the One who loves you, even when all you want is a bowl of cereal and a stick of cheese.

Don’t misread me: it’s not about following rules. That’s not at all what I’m implying. Jesus was very clear: the heart weighs more than the checklist. It’s not about maintaining a list of dos and don’ts; it’s about trusting Him, knowing Him, loving Him, loving others. Not necessarily in that order. So often life has nothing to do with the circumstance and everything to do with our character. It’s not about making the path straight, it’s about transforming who we are into more of who He wants us to be - who we are meant to be.

Three facts:

He is omniscient - all-knowing. Nothing is hidden from Him. Nothing.
He is omnipotent - all-powerful. He holds in His hand the ability to do all things. Nothing is too big for Him to handle. Nothing.
He is Love. He is incapable and unwilling to do anything or allow anything that is not rooted in His deep, deep love for us. Everything stems from His great big love for us. Everything.

Clinging to these truths, we can walk an uncertain road. We can step with confidence. We can endure the Gatorade and wait for the granola - because stomach viruses don’t last forever, and our mamas know best.

And fragrant and sanitary is soooo much better than a vomit-filled trashcan.

Juicy

2012-01-11T14:36:00.000-05:00

Now I know what drugs feel like.

Maybe. At least I think I do. The feel-good part. Not the shaky-and-hallucinating part. I wouldn't know. But I’m gandering a guess.

Y’all. I bought a juicer. And it is fabulous. Not the sarcastic fabulous. The fabulous-fabulous.

About the fourth consecutive pajama day of Christmas break, I resolved to have more energy to endure our crazy, busy, ridiculous life. Between school carpools, dance classes, basketball practices, gymnastics classes, after-school musical rehearsals, Boy Scout meetings, spelling words, and chores - not to mention laundry, dishes, volunteering, writing, and the endless endless endless cleaning - I could use a little boost.

Disclaimer (because I know Michael will correct me): Boy Scouts is not my responsibility. I have absolutely no connection with Nathan’s Tiger Cub troop or pack or den or whatever it’s called. I wouldn’t know. I purposefully pitched that ball into Michael’s court and slapped the dust from my hands, so it is 100% his deal. I’m not even on the email list. On purpose. I told the lady - whatever her name is - not to add me. Michael tells me when the meetings are, and I note them on my calendar, but there ends the extent of my involvement for two reasons:

I’m already juggling too many balls.
Michael needs to bond with Nathan because they drive each other bananas. So I coerced Michael into signing up suggested Tiger Cubs as an extracurricular activity for our very non-athletic, non-coordinated, space cadet last born, then I stepped away.

And Michael still loves me. Tiger Cubs, notsomuch.

But even with one less ball in the air, I still need the stamina of a cheetah or marathon runner or three year old. Because falling asleep in the car line is so not cool.

Now that we’ve established the theme for 2012 (“Let there be light!”), let us also vow to exercise more and eat better. Not less, but better. Maybe a little less. And sleep. More sleep is always good. Because a rested and healthy mama is a happy mama, and a happy mama means a happy family. And an unhappy, unrested, unfit mama sends everyone running for cover.

My sweet mother-in-law spent Thanksgiving with us this year, along with my favorite aunt. The three of us had a conversation one morning that eventually rolled around to juicers and the benefits of juicing and how to juice and what to juice. I was the only one at the table without a juicer. I decided I wanted a juicer. I had to have a juicer.

One month later, on Christmas morning, my mother-in-law presented me with the most beautiful Visa gift card I’ve ever seen, along with a note telling me to go pick out a juicer.

I love her.

I couldn’t get to Amazon fast enough. I’d already found a juicer in the midst of my online Christmas shopping and added it to my wish list. Click, click, click, confirm. Hallelujah.

Thanks to the glory and beauty that is Amazon, my new juicer magically arrived on my doorstep the next week. It is shiny. It is pretty. It is easily assembled.

Mm-kay. Now what? I had no clue where to start.

God bless the Google. I entered “juicer recipes” and found a list of seventeen gajillion websites with ideas on what to put in your juicer. I made some notes, but since we didn’t have much on hand, we threw in some apples, carrots, celery, spinach, and a banana.

It looked like baby poo.

We poured it into five itty bitty glasses, and took a sip. No one spit it out. It was actually quite tasty. Success.

The next day, I headed to Central Market for a vegetable buying spree. Carrots, beet root, ginger, spinach, apples, cucumber, red bell pepper - though they were out of kale. Kale will come next week.

Fast forward to Monday morning. Cold, dreary, rainy, nasty, I-want-to-stay-in-my-bed-all-day Monday morning. I hate Monday mornings. I dragged my weary bones out of bed, opened my eyes enough to find the creamer for my coffee, drove the kids to school in my pajamas, and crawled back in bed. I had volunteered to help at Meghan’s school later that morning - otherwise I would have pulled the blankets over my head and hibernated until I had to pick up the kids. Possibly in my pajamas. It was that kind of day.

Instead, I dragged my weary bones out of bed - again. I decided to make some juice.

WOOOOOOO!!!!

One glassful later, I was flying. I was rockin’. I was rollin’. I was unstoppable.

I felt great.

I buzzed up to that middle school and ushered those 7^th grade boys into the vision & hearing screening room with a smile on my face. I zoomed back home with the radio blaring and my fingers tapping to the beat on my turn signal handle. I zipped through the house, changing laundry, washing dishes, wiping countertops. I sat down to soak in a little Truth, allowing myself to be flooded with light. Then I was off again for the carline - not in my pajamas - and an afternoon full of spelling words, chores, basketball practice, musical rehearsal, gymnastics, homework - and somewhere in there, I managed to get dinner on the table. Kids bathed and brushed and prayed and tucked. And I fell into bed, sleeping harder than I had in ages.

Success.

Who knew what a little nutrition could do? It makes sense, really. All those God-given fruits of the earth were created not only for our nourishment, but our enjoyment. When we live as we were created and designed to live, we are better equipped to fulfill our purpose.

Not that carrots and spinach will solve all of our issues. We still have stuff, and that stuff will eat us alive if we allow it. But take care of yourself, friend. Treat yourself kindly and gently. Do something good for your body and your mind today. Find what nourishes you, what refreshes you, what energizes you. And do it.

It’s gonna be a great year.

Stepping into light

2012-01-05T17:00:00.003-05:00

Hello, 2012. You are a welcome friend.

Not that 2011 was bad. We had a fantastic year. We built a house, moved in, spent a lot of time with a lot of great people. Not too shabby.

I used to play this mental game with myself - loosely based in fact. If one year was good, the next year was bound to be crappy. Fourth grade: fun. Fifth grade: nightmare. Sixth grade: enjoyable. Seventh grade: disaster. And on and on.

But I’m choosing now to be slightly more optimistic and not give in to fear. In fact, I sense some bigness on the horizon. No clue as to what it will involve, but I know it’s gonna be a great year.

And I’m choosing not to think about the indisputable fact that the biggest bignesses in life often follow the most painful pain.

We’ll just stay happy.

As I mentioned way back LAST YEAR before I completely lost my mojo and stopped writing altogether, I was drop-kicked under a bus before Christmas. The underside of a bus is a great place for self-evaluation.

Following the holiday bus massacre, the Holy Spirit descended upon me in the form of my almost-teenaged daughter and a well-deserved whack upside the head. She called me out on some hypocrisy and inconsistency, which was hard to hear, but I needed to hear it. “You always tell me to be kind and not to judge people, but you talk about people behind their backs, and you’re really rude.”

Ouch.

And, unfortunately, she’s right. I don’t always turn on the filter, so what’s in my head comes spewing forth from my mouth, and you know the old comparison about words and toothpaste. Once they’re out there, you can’t put it back.

So I’m going to start working on that. Welcome, new year, new beginnings.

While I’m not a big fan of resolutions (I did manage to make our bed almost every day for a year in 2009), I know my life and heart and priorities could use some rearranging, and I’m sensing the birth of a theme for 2012. Or at least for this week.

Light.

Illuminating, life-giving, breathtaking light. Light shining within and without. Perceiving light. Soaking in light. Meditating on light.

Also, I’d like to lighten the amount of bra fat and muffin top.

Yesterday I read this: you are the light of the world. It’s not an aspiration. It’s not a hope. It’s not a goal.

It’s an identity. You. Are. Light.

And a little further down, The eye is the lamp of the body. So, if your eye is healthy, your whole body will be full of light, but if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness.

That verse is smack-dab in the middle of a passage about money and anxiety and provision - but I think it’s saying that what I meditate on, what I choose to see will fill me with either light or darkness. And while I love the darkness of my room at night and my comfy bed and snuggling down in the warmth and never wanting to get up - once the day breaks and I’m up and moving, I need light. I need goodness and mercy and grace.

(And coffee. Which is all of the above.)

This year, let us pursue light. Let us focus on what is good and perfect and lovely. Let us see the God inside everyone, the value, the gift.

So far, so good. My mood has improved considerably over the past two days, and I’m working on digging that darned plank of wood out of my eye. I am breathing and praying and searching for light. It does a heart and a mind and a body good.

May I interject the obvious? It’s an election year. Light might occasionally be hard to find. Light might be hiding under a great big political bushel. But I will attempt to read less Salon and Fox News and CNN and more Momastery and Big Mama. I will not read vitriolic comments on online news articles.

I will absorb goodness, and when I speak, I will hope my words - both spoken and written - will breathe life and light.

If I can achieve that, then perhaps I can avoid any further encounters with the underside of a bus. At least this week.

The underside of a bus

2011-12-21T17:53:00.000-05:00

Four more days.

That’s how much longer we have to celebrate this season of merriment and grouchiness.

I’m walking a thin line between the two. I’m looking forward to the screaming and laughing and togetherness of Christmas morning, but I don’t think I’m going to miss the music. And the stress. I’ve had enough Fa-La-La-La.

I admit I am completely embracing the hiatus from carpools and school and dance and choir and sports. Out of curiosity, I kept track of my mileage for one week. Two hundred ninety-eight point seven miles in seven days. Averaged over a year, that’s more than fifteen thousand five hundred miles. That’s a lot of miles. That is a lot of time in the car.

That is excellent ammunition for the next time a little person backtalks to me.

So I’m enjoying a little more time at home and a little less in the Loser Cruiser.

Yesterday, though, was ugly. I spent my day curled up into a pathetic little ball of self-loathing and pity because someone close to me threw me under a bus in a huge betraying way, and the bottom of a bus is not a fun place to be...especially the week before Christmas. I hung on to the underside of that bus for a while, bumped and scraped, suffering a painful bout of road rash. Then the bus dropped me off at the nearest pot hole, and I sat there in the stinky, oily runoff water and wallowed in my pathetic existence, thought all kinds of curse words and plans of revenge and screaming diatribes about the injustice of being thrown under a bus.

Thankfully, I went to sleep before acting upon any of my plans for retaliation.

There is a fine line between conviction and condemnation. I, unfortunately, chose The Dark Side - until a dear friend let me vomit all my self-loathing into her lap, and when I was done, she reassured me that I am Good and I am Loved.

Then more friends came alongside me and reminded me that I am Valued and Important.

So now I am happy again. I stepped back over the line to conviction, which is where we face our mess and allow God to redeem it, but we don’t let it define us. I do have a big mess, and my drop-kick under the bus opened my eyes to that reality, but instead of allowing it to devour me, I choose to devour it. I choose to open my tight-fisted hands and let go. I choose to work on my mess, seek wisdom, ask forgiveness. I choose to love.

Which should make Christmas much more pleasant.

Also, I have pledged to never throw anyone under a bus, no matter how stupid and ridiculous they are. It’s just not nice.

Merry Christmas, y’all.

PS: This is amazingly beautiful...and this made me laugh so hard I almost peed in my pants. If you haven't met Glennon, please give yourself a Christmas gift of time to read her stuff. I want to be her when I grow up.

Carols and I need some couples therapy

2011-12-05T17:16:00.000-05:00

I love music.

Music energizes. It comforts. It soothes. It delivers a much-needed catharsis of emotion and an occasional ugly cry.

Music is my friend.

I have music playing constantly in my house, in my car, at the gym - wherever I am, I’m tapping, grooving, singing, swaying. At any given moment, I will bust a move. Music lifts my mood like nothing else.

Except for Christmas music. We have a frenemy-type relationship. Some songs I truly enjoy. Others cause me to strangle myself with the nearest branch of mistletoe.

Last year, Christmas Music and I met for coffee and attempted to reconcile. I’m happy and fun! he insisted. You’re trite and annoying, I countered. But I tell a joyful tale! he argued. Joyful tale I can handle. Crooning over imaginary mythical characters and nonexistent winter precipitation I cannot.

So we left Starbuck’s on amicable terms, but I still harbored a handful of ill-will, and I kept my ever-faithful, hollyjolly-less iPod close by.

This year, Christmas Music returned, begging for another chance. I slammed the door in its face when it showed up the week before Thanksgiving, but it hobbled meekly back after we buried Gertrude’s remains. I was so happy to be finally rid of Gertrude that I decided to indulge Christmas Music, and I invited him in.

We pulled out the decorations, poured some hot chocolate, and dove headfirst into Holiday Joy.

I’m kinda enjoying his company. He has nestled in nicely with our new house and the renewed Christmas spirit that has accompanied our new digs. There’s something about finally living in your dream house - and the assumed permanence - that makes me want to bust out the holly and the jolly like never before.

I began a mental list of Christmas music I love...and those that cause me to choke on my candy cane.

First, the loathes:

Anything by Burl Ives, (I can only hear “The Ugly Bug Ball” when Mr. Ives voice comes across the radio waves, which does nothing to promote goodwill toward men), Bing Crosby, Karen Carpenter, the Beach Boys, or a Jamaican reggae band, and while I’m sure they celebrate the holidays on the beach, there is something very wrong with singing about snow and St. Nick while wearing bermuda shorts.

“Away in a Manger.” This song has always bugged me. First, I don’t think baby Jesus laid there amongst the cow dung without crying. I think he probably had colic. And “stay by my cradle til morning is nigh”? What is that? (Besides ridiculous.) Not my favorite tune.

Anything by Amy Grant. OK, true confessions time here. Get ready. This gets ugly. I grew up listening to Amy Grant. Loved her. I had every cassette she ever recorded, starting with the scandalous Unguarded album, where she wore the leopard-print jacket and her name emblazoned the cover in hot pink block caps. And, at least once on every album, she sang a tune about how she was not going to give up on her wayward husband, how she loved him, how she would stay and work it out. And then, sometime after Behind the Eyes, she up and left poor Gary Chapman and married Vince Gill (who I also can’t stomach, but I’ve never liked him anyway). The odd part of this ugly soul-searching scenario is that I have since stood by several friends and family members who have gone through divorces - wept with them, wholeheartedly supported them, and witnessed how they really are better unmarried. But I am unable to get over Amy Grant. I flip the station every time she comes on, and I avoid looking at her cute little face on the cover of Good Housekeeping when I’m in the checkout line at Tom Thumb.

There ya have it. Just keeping it real, folks. I hate that I feel this way, and I need to get over it.

Moving on.

Let’s talk about my very favorite Christmas music, shall we?

Anything coming forth from the sweet pipes of Mr. Josh Groban. Oh, Josh. Joshjoshjoshjoshjooooosh. I could slather you all over a sugar cookie and gobble you up with a cold glass of milk (while cuddled under the mistletoe with my beloved husband, of course). Hubba hubba.

Bruce Springsteen’s “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town.” I especially love the end of the song when one of the band members ho-ho-hos, and The Boss can’t sing for laughing. Makes me smile every time.

“Carol of the Bells/God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” - the Trans-Siberian Orchestra electric guitar version. Rockin’ around the Christmas tree at its finest.

“It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” and “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” The happier I become about the holidays, the more these grow on me. Cheery little ditties, these are.

The Muppets’ “Twelve Days of Christmas” (BAH-DAH-DUM-DUM) and, conversely but oh-so-delightful, “The Twelve Pains of Christmas.”

Faith Hill’s “Where Are You, Christmas?” I’ve heard this one before, but I listened to the lyrics for the first time last week, and it gave me chills. I love the raw authenticity of it - a woman jaded and scarred by the world, having lost all Christmas joy but wanting desperately to get it back. Yeah, I can relate. Awesome song.

“O Come, Emmanuel.” My all-time favorite Christmas hymn, for many of the same reasons - except that instead of searching for Christmas spirit, the writer is begging for Christ Himself. Israel, mourning in exile, was waiting expectantly for the Messiah, and now we, likewise burdened and weary from sin, wait expectantly for His return. The beautiful, haunting melody draws me into worship like no other Christmas tune.

So the Christmas season is in full swing in our house. I’d forgotten how fun and exciting it can be. When I focus on the giving and serving part of the holidays, when I choose to absorb the love, to remember the Gift that causes us to celebrate, it’s not so bad. It’s actually rather enjoyable.

Carols and all.

Full of thanks and tree bark turkey

2011-11-28T18:16:00.002-05:00

Gertrude, you let me down.

Or, perhaps, I let you down.

We’ll stay with the former.

Gertrude the Turkey smelled great. She looked divine. She tasted like tree bark.

I accidentally added the 2 ½ cups of water, which was supposed to go in the bottom of the roasting pan, to the olive oil baste. That probably didn’t help. Gertrude went into the oven at 6:30 that morning because the directions told us she needed to cook for 6 hours, and we planned to eat around 2:00 - and I wanted to add some cushion. By the time I inserted the digital meat thermometer at 11:00, she was already at 190 degrees - but I didn’t want to serve cold turkey, so we turned the oven off and left her inside.

Hindsight, you are a cruel, cruel friend.

But whatever. Michael’s cousin whipped up some wicked gravy from Gertrude’s drippings, so as long as Gertrude was drowning in beautiful brown sauce, I could swallow. The rest of the side dishes were divine. Fried green tomatoes with Cajun remoulade & shrimp (UNBELIEVABLY scrumptious, created by my multitalented baby brother), cranberry-apple chutney,corn casserole, broccoli & hollandaise sauce, sweet potatoes, spinach salad, fresh Mennonite rolls, and the most amazing apple pecan cornbread stuffing, which totally made up for the nastiness disguised as a turkey.

And, for the record, I am not a huge fan of making any kind of contact with a raw, slimy, bacteria-infested, dead bird.

Ew.

And, for another record, I was not trying to rip the bird’s wing off its body. My mother told me we had to tuck it in. Since she’s done this before, I listened to her. After the wing-tucking, I made the baste, gritted my teeth, and forced my hands to touch the cold, wet, slippery skin. I even stuck my hands between the skin and the meat to separate the two and insert the unfortunate watery baste inside.

Not the highlight of my week. Or my year. Or my life.

Thankfully, the tree bark turkey is not what my family will remember about this Thanksgiving celebration. At least I hope so. I hope they will remember seventeen dearly loved people within the walls of one warm, welcoming home. I hope they will remember the jokes, the goodhearted teasing, the shared labor of preparing a scrumptious meal. I hope they will recall rocking on the front porch after dinner, laughing, sipping wine, weaving wisdom and encouragement with humorous recollections and family anecdotes.

(My ancestors were nuts. Just so you know. Which explains a lot.)

And, of course, the football. Lots of football.

I loved having a house-full. Loved it. While some may cringe at hosting a multitude, Michael and I draw energy from entertaining. We are fulfilled and satisfied and satiated when our home is bustling and loud. We know then that we are smack dab in the middle of God’s purpose for us, that we are obeying what He has called us to do.

Nothing brings joy to the soul like knowing you’re doing exactly what God wants.

I could almost sense all the prayers and love emanating from within our walls.

Turkey-schmurkey. Who needs a dry, tasteless bird anyway? Some things are worth savoring more than a Thanksgiving meal. This will be the first of many holiday celebrations in our home, the first of many laughter-filled gatherings, the first of many memorable family shindigs.

And hopefully the last of tree-bark turkey.

A Letter to My Thanksgiving Turkey

2011-11-22T16:46:00.003-05:00

Dear 20 lb. turkey thawing in my refrigerator,

Please be kind.

Have mercy on me, a culinary amateur. Seventeen people will gather in my kitchen in two days expecting an edible Thanksgiving dinner. They’re expecting you to taste - well, good. Like a Thanksgiving turkey should taste. I’ve never hosted Thanksgiving in my home. I’ve never prepared a turkey. I’m a wee bit nervous.

I found you at Sprouts. Your label tells me you were fed natural grains and roamed free through a farmyard instead of being fattened up in a pen and fed ground-up carcasses. After watching the first half of Food Inc., I feel a little better knowing you had a happy life - at least happier and slightly longer than the average turkey. I hope your long-ish, happy life means I can’t screw you up too badly. I hope it means you’ve already done most of the work for me.

You arrived fresh - not frozen - at my home last week because I planned and shopped early - but because you were raw ten days before your final destination to my oven, I put you in the freezer until Saturday morning.

Please, please, please, please thaw out before Thursday.

You’ll be rubbed with olive oil and sage and basil, a recipe that received rave online reviews. Embrace the herbs. Keep your juices inside. Tantalize our taste buds.

For this is your purpose, dear turkey. You were hatched and raised and fattened to delight and satisfy my family. Rise up, turkey. Finish the race. Run to get the crown. You can do it.

I’ll be on the sidelines, coaching and prodding you along, giving you what I think you need. But it’s up to you to fulfill your destiny. I can only do so much.

You gotta help me. I have no idea what I’m doing. The power lies within you.

Don’t let me down.

Holiday love, not holiday impalement

2011-11-16T15:42:00.000-05:00

A few things make me want to jab my eyeball with a sharp pencil.

Whining, disrespect, disobedience, arguing, verbal interruptions, listening to someone eating breakfast cereal.

And, reflecting upon 2007 and 2010, the Christmas holidays.

Yet here we are again, and there’s nothing I can do to stop the impending doom of craziness. As if my life isn’t chaotic enough, now I have to cram holiday parties, shopping, cooking, Christmas cards, wrapping, and decorating into our already crammed calendar.

We learned during The Black Christmas of 2007 that we cannot do it all. We have to choose carefully, or it’s gonna get ugly. I have toyed with the idea of not sending Christmas cards at all this year - simply to have one less thing to do - but Michael gently nudged me away from that idea. Gently, because he knows discussing Christmas preparations is a minefield this time of year. One wrong step, and mama could pull out her black turtleneck on Christmas Day.

We will host our sporadically annual Holiday Open House this year - an event we used to do every year, but haven’t for the past two years because we were selling a house, then building a house and temporarily living in a crackerbox - so now that we’re somewhat settled into The House (which, by the way, was designed for the specific purpose of hosting ginormous parties), we’re jumping back on that horse. And I’m kinda excited about it. I’d be more excited if I could wave a magic wand and utter some incantation a la Harry Potter and make scrumptious holiday treats appear on my kitchen island. But whatever.

Man, life seems better in fiction.

I learned several years ago that preparation is key to a happy holiday - so I’ve already made my baking list and grocery list. It’s a start. I had grand intentions of starting to bake and freeze at the beginning of November; yet we landed in the middle of November, and I’m not sure what happened to the last two weeks. My to-do list keeps getting longer, and the days pass more quickly, and somehow it feels like I’m accomplishing nothing.

Breathe. I need to breathe. Simplify. Move forward in love. Logistical preparation has its place, but heart preparation is the key. Thankfulness, grace, generosity, hospitality. Those should be woven between every line on my to-do list.

If I bake a thousand million cookies and roll two zillion Oreo truffles, yet have not love, I accomplish nothing.

If I plan my entire Thanksgiving menu from Allrecipes.com and knock out all the grocery shopping in one day, and have not love, I am merely a crazy-haired, minivan driving soccer mom in yoga pants and a baseball cap in need of a stiff drink.

If I chase my children through Dollar Tree as they eagerly shop for gifts to fill their Operation Christmas Child shoeboxes, and I have not love, then I only reinforce the idea that Christmas is only about checking items from my list while I exhaust myself and make my family miserable.

Love for my God. Love for my family. Love for the world. Those alone should motivate and energize me. Those alone should be the reason behind every crossed-off item on my to-do list. Not to impress, not because “it’s what we do,” not because it’s expected. Because we love. And we love because we are loved. Such simple ideas, and ones we have heard every other Sunday morning - that God loves us, that Jesus’ birth is the reason for the season and proof that God loves us, therefore we ought to love others. But this season, I want to truly dive into that truth. Every gift I buy, every scoop of flour I level, every card I sign - may I think I am doing this because of love.

Maybe then the sharp pencils can stay in the junk drawer and away from my eyeballs.

Magic, tired feet, space cadets...and more magic

2011-11-03T21:29:00.001-04:00

Whew.

The older I get, the more I realize how old I am. The old gray mare, she ain’t what she used to be.

At one time, the old gray mare could plow them fields in record time, then kick up her heels and bring down the barn.

These days, she stumbles through the fields, then collapses on the hay and sleeps for a week.

We spent last week at the Happiest and Most Magical Place on Earth, and truly, it was. We had a blast. But, for reasons to follow, we ran and ran and ran and ran for five days without a drop of down time. We rose early, got to the parks soon after they opened, did everything we could possibly do, ate everything we could possibly eat, and staggered into our hotel room about midnight.

Then we’d get up the next morning and do it all again.

For five days.

My feet hurt just thinking about it.

But I’d do it again in a second.

(Or at least after I’ve had a good nap.)

The American Academy of Ophthalmology posts their meeting schedule several years in advance, so we’ve known for a while that Orlando would host their national meeting in 2011. Gretchen and I started scheming immediately, but we never said anything to the kids about it - we’ve both learned how quickly life turns unexpectedly and most inconveniently. So we kept this trip a secret.

But then Gretchen & BJ bought a house on the lake with lots of potential, which required lots of remodeling and lots of cash. We put our dreams of a Disney World reunion on hold. I understood, but I was still pretty disappointed. At least we hadn’t told the kids. They would not have been so understanding.

Michael and I debated the wisdom of the kids’ missing four days of school, especially since Meghan is in 7^th grade and all pre-AP classes, plus the added expense only six months after we moved into our new house. But Michael noted we do not have too many years left for family vacations, and in the grand scheme of things, a few days of make-up work and a some thinly stretched dollars do not compare with immense family bonding and eternal magical memories.

Off we went.

Everyone should accompany a six year old on his first visit to Disney World at least once in a lifetime. Put it on your bucket list. I think we had more fun simply watching him than he had himself. “That was AWESOME!” we heard over and over and over again, second only to “Thank you for bringing us here!” Nathan skipped and jumped and ran through every park, practically jumping out of his skin from joy and excitement. He absorbed every possible ounce of Disney, rarely realizing he had wandered twenty paces beyond the rest of the family.

If we had a dime for every time we said/yelled/sighed Nathan’s name, we could have paid for this magical vacation. It took us 4.7 minutes on our first day at the park before we realized the stroller was a most excellent call. Space Mountain was Nathan’s his favorite ride not because of all of the thrilling twists and turns, but because he so badly wanted to return to his home planet. (Ditto for Mission: Space and Spaceship Earth.) The boy resides in his own little universe, and while I’m sure Planet Nathan is a very nice place to live, the rest of us would appreciate his presence on Planet Earth.

Especially during that most unfortunate fifteen minutes one evening at Epcot when we had NO FREAKIN IDEA WHERE HE WAS. He just walked off to explore. By himself. At night. Fortunately, while we were frantically searching for him, he found a Cast Member (the official name for WDW employees) by the exit and was about to call my cell phone when we spotted him. Punk. I hugged him tight. Then I strangled him.

But that incident was only a minor blip in the scheme of Blissfully Exhausting Magic. Truly, this vacation was one we will never forget - mainly because our best best best best best friends decided to join us after all, despite having to pay for the gutting of their basement and the replacement of their sewage line and other crazy remodeling expenses. The temptation for togetherness was too great.

Gretchen & BJ changed their minds only a few weeks before the trip, so we all had to work hard to not leak the secret to the kids. Several times, we almost blew it. In fact, we thought at least one of them had figured it out. Turns out, we’re pretty good liars. They had no idea what was about to hit them.

My writing skills could not do justice to the reveal. It was one of the most priceless, precious parenting moments I’ve ever experienced. So I’ll just show you. Get your Kleenex ready.

I couldn’t help but think of this:

If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him! Matthew 7:11

How I love giving good gifts - amazing, unexpected, incomparable gifts - to my kids. How much more God loves surprising me.

And that, my friends, is why recovering from a week of Disney has been so difficult. We spent every waking moment with our dearest friends, not wanting to waste a single second on a silly thing like rest time. We milked it for all it was worth. While we would still have enjoyed Disney World with only our family, the trip was five hundred thousand times more fun with Gretchen, BJ, Alexandra, Christian, and Adrianne. We love them so much.

And as an added bonus, we also got to see Beth, Jason, Cooper, John, Julie, Nick, Kate, and Emily - more precious friends from our Iowa days. I’ve heard medical residency being likened to a war, and the friends you make during that season are the friends with whom you will have a lifelong bond of survivorship. I love these women, their husbands, and their kids in a way I can love no one else. We are family. To have the chance to spend a week with them again in a place of pure happiness instead of a place of four feet of snow, subzero temperatures, pagers, late-night surgeries, and missed dinners and bedtimes? I am beyond thankful. Though my feet ached and my body spent the next ten days trying to recover from all the excitement, I would do it all again.

That kind of magic even Walt can’t create.

Repost - Aliens and Sacrificial Love

2011-10-21T08:00:00.006-04:00

I'm not one to say, "God told me this..." or "God told me that...," but I feel hugely compelled to share this one more time. I hope it encourages you today.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Many, many times during the twelve years we have been parents, my husband and I have looked at each other, exhausted and frustrated and panicked, thinking to ourselves This is not what we signed up for. This is not what we imagined when we said, “Let’s have a baby!" Somewhere along the way, our precious bundle of joy struck a deal with an alien life form and decided to switch places.

This whole parenting thing? Not for wimps.

The first week of school is One Of Those Times. Disruption, exhaustion, new routine, new teacher, new friends - then throw in moving to a new house and a new school, and you end up with a perfect storm that will inevitably explode into some serious ugly. Especially when you are a nine year old middle child.

He was tired. (Who wouldn’t be after a full summer of sleeping in and playing, then having to wake up at 6:20 every morning and go to school all day?)

He was lonely and confused. (He started at a new school, whose building is completely different from his old school building, and he knows no one.)

And thanks to some misbehavior over the summer, the rug was still being pulled out from under him at home in the form of some tough new discipline strategies.

All of that put together? Ugly.

Screaming, yelling, name-calling, hitting, pushing, blatant defiance and disobedience. By Wednesday night, I was an exhausted, frazzled mess. I was done.

Not surprisingly, I had a really hard time sleeping that night. As I lay awake, an idea started to form in my mushy, fatigued little brain. A conversation. A plan. I truly believe God was speaking and telling me exactly what to say – because the end result was astonishing.

The next morning was off to a (sadly expected) rough start.

He gave us an ultimatum. “Give me what I want, or I’m not going to school.”

“Fine,” we said. “But you still have to get up and get dressed, because you will need to go into your principal’s office and explain why you’re not going to class today.”

He decided to go to school.

That afternoon, I picked up all the kids, brought them home, gave them a snack, then called him into my bedroom. I closed the door and sat on my bed, inviting him to join me.

“I want to tell you the story of you,” I began. Then, lovingly and respectfully, I recounted my tale. I told him how excited we were when we found out I was pregnant. And then, in specific but discreet detail, I described all that I experienced and endured because I love him so much.

Morning sickness. (“You know how yucky you feel when you throw up? I threw up every day for a month.”)

Discomfort. (“For four months, I had to sleep sitting up, otherwise you would get up under my ribs and I’d wake up feeling like my ribs were broken.”)

Labor. (“Can you remember the worst tummy ache you’ve ever had? I had that every 3 to 5 minutes for about nine hours…”)

Exhaustion. (“I had slept for about two hours, then we had to go to the hospital, and you weren’t born until the next afternoon…” and “Staying in the hospital isn’t restful. Someone is coming in every few hours to check on you, and when they weren’t checking on me, I had to feed you…”)

Nursing. (“You know how it feels when you fall on your bike and hit your private parts? Imagine someone squeezing you there really hard for twenty minutes straight, then throwing up all over you, and then coming back to do it again every two hours, around the clock, every day.”)

Exhaustion Part II. (“You’ve seen your 2 year old cousins this year. That’s how old your sister was when you were born. I had to take care of you and her, and Daddy was working a lot. None of our family lived close enough to help me. There were many days I couldn’t even take a shower.”)

Soccer. (“This is exactly how much money we spend every year for you to play soccer. We could take a really nice vacation with that money, but we don’t. This is exactly how much time we spend in the car every single week, just taking you to practices and games. We know God has gifted you to play soccer, and we love to watch you play, so we don’t mind doing this.”)

At the end of this extended, very detailed speech, I said, “I want you to look at me because this is important, and I want you to remember this. All of these things I told you about? This is why I deserve your respect, and why it makes me so sad and angry when you treat me badly and call me names and say that I don’t love you. I have endured so much for you, and I have sacrificed everything for you. I love you.”

He gazed at me with his huge, liquid brown eyes - the same eyes that captured me nine years ago when I held him as a wrinkled, bald, beautiful newborn - snuggled up next to me, gave me a hug, and said, “I’m sorry, Mom.”

With that, The Alien returned to his home planet, and my sweet, tenderhearted, obedient son returned.

Because of his behavior that previous week, my husband and I had already decided that he would not be allowed to go to soccer practice that week, nor would he play in the championship game on Saturday. In order to drive the lesson home, we told him that he would have to go to practice and explain to his coach why he would not be practicing or playing.

Normally, he would have thrown an enormous defiant fit over this and refused. But after our little chat, when I told him what he was going to have to do that afternoon, he considered, nodded, and said, “I think I can do that.”

And he did.

During the night of insomnia when God gave me the words to speak, I knew his heart would be stirred and his world rocked. He can’t stand to see anyone hurting or sad or sick. He’s the kid who will empty his piggy bank for the American Heart Association fundraiser at school or the special offering at church for the orphans in Vietnam. He’s the kid who won’t let me drive past a homeless person without rolling down the window and offering my spare change. He’s that kind of kid.

(Despite the wild Norwegian-Spanish flare that he comes by oh-so-honestly.)

I knew that illustrating the proof of my love and how much it cost would reach the part of his heart that he had closed off to us, and I hoped he would respond with tender humility and gratitude. I knew how much happier he would be when he returned to who he really is.

How much like our children we are. Disobedient. Defiant. Unkind. Disrespectful. And does not God similarly speak to the prodigal? I love you so much. Here’s what I did for you. This is how much I gave. I gave My life for you. I sacrificed everything because I love you so much. Please let Me love you. Please act in love and gentleness so you can experience the life I have planned for you.

And how much more peacefully and joyfully we live – with ourselves and with each other – when we simply accept His love for us. How much happier we are when we simply obey.

How abundantly we live when our own little aliens go back to their home planet.

In the margin, doodles and other signs of destruction

2011-10-18T12:03:00.002-04:00

Today was supposed to be a productive day. I planned to drag my flabby butt to the gym, go to Target, obsessively plan a minute-by-minute itinerary for our upcoming Disney World vacation, write, finish laundry, fold laundry, pack…

Instead, I waited for The Texture Guy to come and reapply the hand-trowel texture in a couple of messy/thin/didja-really-think-that-looked-good kind of spots. We’ve lived in The House for six months, so it’s time for a punch list. It took us six months to notice these walls needed some touch-up - which is precisely the point of a six month punch list.

Anyway. The Texture Guy was late. An hour and a half late. And he took much, much, MUCH longer than I anticipated. Like three hours longer. So while I did complete the laundry and my OCD itinerary, my butt is still flabby and Target was spared my sweaty, stinky presence.

(Because YES I have been known to go straight to the store in my workout clothes, sans shower. There are more days than I care to admit when I work out in the morning and do not shower until 10 p.m. It happens. I’m starting a club because I know I’m not the only one. We’ll have tshirts and a secret handshake. You know you want to join.)

While this time at home was unexpected, it was not necessarily unwelcome.

Actually, that’s a total lie. It drove me crazy. I have things to do! I have places to go! I have flab to tone! I don’t have time to slow down and wait!

As if I had a choice. But it’s good. Slowing down is good. Quiet is good. Margin is good.

Remember back in the dark ages when you were in school taking notes? We didn’t have laptops or smart phones. We had notebook paper. If you were really cool, you had a Trapper Keeper with a rainbow and unicorn. If, like me, you tried to be cool but never quite got there, you had a big binder with loose leaf filler paper.

And if, like me, you were slightly ADD (though undiagnosed) and had trouble paying attention to boring subjects like algebra or British literature or Business Applications, you filled the class time by pretending to listen while you doodled in the margin of your notebook paper. I’d write my name in dot letters, bubble letters, cheerleader letters. (Cheerleaders had their own boxy patented font that they used for all the “spirit signs.” I tried desperately to imitate it.) I’d draw flowers and smiley faces and hearts. I’d write notes to my friend sitting next to me. (“This class is SOOOO lame! Gag me with a spoon!”) I filled my margins with flourish.

While I was able to fake my way through literature (good writing can do that), my algebra grades suffered. I wrote an entire song in the margins of my College Latin notes and earned a big fat D for my efforts. (D as in DEAD, USELESS LANGUAGE.)

Bad things happen when you fill your margins.

Our weekly family calendar is out of control. I color-coded each kid’s activities on my iCal, and I open the page to a veritable kaleidoscope. Every weekday afternoon, every weekend is a rainbow of dance classes, Cub Scout meetings, soccer practices, dance performances, piano classes, church, school musical rehearsal, and gymnastics. I’m not sure how this happened. We told our kids they could each do ONE thing. Then they snuck in a few extra things. Multiply a few activities per kid times three kids, and you get a worn-out mama and an astronomical gas bill.

More than that, you get tired kids, a disconnected family, stressed-out parents. Our lives are bleeding into the margins.

I heard Priscilla Shirer talk about this topic at a conference last weekend. She gave a great illustration of a fire pit (which I TOTALLY want to get before the weather turns cool, which in Texas should happen sometime around New Year’s). Contained within this beautiful, scrolled cast iron fire pit sitting on my back porch, fire provides warmth and beauty and toasted marshmallows. Outside of the parameters of the pit, the fire consumes and destroys all it surrounds.

God gives us good things. Food is good. Shoes are good. Vera Bradley handbags are very, very good. Soccer, dance, piano, Cub Scouts - all good things. He allows us to enjoy good things. But outside of reasonable limits, these good things will consume and destroy us.

Manna was good. God provided food for the wandering Israelites every day for forty years. But the Israelites had spent the past 400 years in treacherous slavery, where they couldn’t trust their masters to give them what they needed - so they hoarded every spare scrap of food they could find, stuffed it in their pockets, and saved it for when food was scarce. God had brought the Israelites out of Egypt; now He needed to get Egypt out of the Israelites. He needed to free them from their slave mentality. Consequently, when they didn’t trust their Master and hoarded the manna, they ended up with stinky, rotting food.

Too much of a good thing is not a good thing.

Soon after, He gave them the principle of Sabbath rest. Stop working. Breathe. Reflect. Worship.

Trust.

I need Sabbath.

So Michael and I are revisiting the family calendar. We’re searching for margin. We’re trying to figure out how, as a family, we can rest. We simply can’t keep going at this pace without somebody getting burned, without the fire consuming and destroying us. We’ll have some difficult choices to make. We’ll have to sacrifice some things. We won’t give up everything, but we will find a balance. We will find margin.

Nice, empty, clean white margin. Margin where we can enjoy time of quiet, time of togetherness, time of rest.

Without the flowers and cheerleader font.

Just when I thought I was rid of everything I would never use again...

2011-10-13T15:57:00.001-04:00

I did something yesterday I swore I would never do again. Nausea swept over me, but I gritted my teeth and did it anyway. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. But it killed me. I almost didn’t do it. The potential benefits ultimately outweighed the shame.

Yesterday, my friends, I bought a stroller.

Before you have a panic attack, let me reassure you that I am absolutely, positively, 100% NOT pregnant. Not that kind of nausea. No, I purchased a stroller because our very complete family of five will soon venture to the vast land of endless entertainment and walking. Also known as Walt Disney World.

We have braved The Happiest Place on Earth twice already. Once when Meghan was three. We left newborn Griffin behind and my parents joined us, so we had four adults and one well-behaved, princess-obsessed child. We travelled during an off-off-peak season, so we practically had the parks to ourselves, and the weather was perfect. Magic.

Our second trip came four years later when Meghan was in 1^st grade and Griffin was in preschool. Newborn Nathan stayed behind with my parents. Two adults, two kids, same time of year. Except that this trip happened to fall on the same week as Rosh Hashanah. In Texas, the veritable buckle of the Bible Belt, our antennae don’t always tune in to the Jewish calendar. In other parts of the country, they apparently get a break from school that week. And everybody goes to Orlando.

It was a nightmare.

The temperatures were unseasonably warm, and the crowds peaked. We spent an hour in line waiting to check into our hotel room. We waited half an hour to board It’s A Small Freakin’ World. Throw in two cranky siblings who were elbowing each other and making sure one did not get in front of the other during the forty-five minute wait for Goofy’s Barnstormer - well, you can imagine how unmagical that week was. I couldn’t wait to get home, and it took me six years to recover enough to stomach a third trip to The World.

And this time, I checked the Jewish holiday calendar before paying for our tickets. I think we’re good.

Except that we will have two adults and three kids, the youngest of whom fully enjoys his surroundings. Fully. He tends to walk twenty paces behind everyone else because he’s too busy noticing the bugs on the sidewalk to realize he’s fallen behind.

Hence, the stroller.

Renting a stroller at the park would cost more than buying one, and while I could have borrowed a stroller, I’d feel awful returning it in seventeen pieces - which, with my luck and my 55 lb. son, would happen. Then I’d have to buy a new stroller anyway.

Disney World brings out the obsessive monster residing deep inside me. I am a serious planner. I read the guidebooks and websites, I memorize the tricks and tips, I research which days are the least crowded at which parks. I make a detailed itinerary of where we will go and exactly what we will see and do each day. I am determined to make the most of this vacation. You can’t just show up at Disney World and follow your whims. No. You have to have a plan.

And my plan does not include lollygagging six year olds fascinated with lampposts.

My plan does include days chock full o’fun and late nights bursting with fireworks. With all the fun crammed into my our agenda, I’m anticipating tired kids with tired feet by the end of each day.

The thought of riding in a stroller mortifies Nathan. “People will look at me and won-duh why a six and a half ye-ah old is widing in a stwoll-uh!”

I told him that people would rather see a six and a half year old quietly riding in a stroller than a six and a half year old screaming and whining and sitting down in the middle of the sidewalk while his parents pretend they are looking for that child’s missing parents.

I confess that while I don’t mourn the passing of the baby years, I do miss the stroller. Especially the stroller basket and cup holders, which are invaluable at an airport or a shopping mall. I don’t miss the impatient child sitting in the stroller, or the diaper bag or sippy cup or bag of Cheerios - but having a wheeled holder-of-all-things does come in handy. So even if Nathan chooses to walk (briskly!) alongside us through Disney World, we will still have a place to store our water bottles and sunscreen and souvenirs. Win-win.

When we return from our magical vacation where no one will whine or complain, where our feet will not ache, where the short lines will allow us to walk on to every ride, where we will have a perfect view of every parade, where it will never rain or be too cold or too hot - when we conclude this perfect vacation, we will still have a stroller. We could save it for walks with our nephews or nieces, we could sell it, we could lend it out.

Or you just might see me in Austin or Southlake or Canton, pushing this babyless stroller filled with shopping bags, antiques, water bottles, a camera bag, and my purse.

Shopping bags don’t need their diapers changed.

Baby steps with fresh breath

2011-10-06T23:16:00.003-04:00

“Simple can be harder than complex: You have to work hard to get your thinking clean to make it simple. But it's worth it in the end because once you get there, you can move mountains." - Steve Jobs

I haven’t written anything in over a week. So much for the “writing is my job and I will do it every day” pledge. My mind has been full, but I can’t seem to find a starting point.

Then Steve Jobs died. Like my brother, I first read the news on my iPhone, then opened my MacBook to get the full story while I listened to music downloaded from iTunes on my iPod. Thank you, Mr. Jobs. You were indeed a genius, an innovator, a world-changer. You were a stubborn, persistent dreamer. You never quit. You simplified what was once complex.

(DOS, anyone?)

I crave more of that. I want to be brave. I want to do the hard things. Deep down, I want to change the world. I want God to breathe through me to bring a little more light into this dark, hopeless place.

Changing the world requires movement, preferably forward, and it seems to come in small steps rather than giant leaps. Faithfulness in the tasks right in front of you, one step at a time.

I considered quitting last week. A book deal dropped into the lap of one of my favorite bloggers, and my first reaction was jealousy, coupled with anger - and one usually joins the other. Why did the stars align for her? And why not me? How did she get this gig?

Then insecurity, coupled with insignificance. Every other blogger and her sister has written a book. Writing isn’t unique. Writers aren’t special. I’m wasting my time.

I took a breath. I rested in truth. Light shining into the darkness is a good thing for all of us, no matter who does the shining. I should not - I cannot - obscure new bursts light with my own insecurities. If her book - or any one else’s book - births more hope, more joy, then I should celebrate.

I re-read her daughter’s profound observation: Sometimes we have to walk to our future even when it feels like we want to run.

So I prayed. I stepped into that wilderness of unpredictable unknowns. Help me. Help me walk when I want to run. Help me take the small, slow, painful steps. Help me trust the scenic route.

And, inspired by another writer friend’s blog, I prayed for a guide, a mentor. Providential, miraculous, divine crossings of paths with someone to whom God whispers, This one. And He points to me. And the guide comes alongside me and tells me where to step.

Priscilla reminds me that miracles dot the wilderness landscape. You walk. You end up somewhere between a big rock and a hard place, and God opens up an escape route. You walk. You get thirsty, and water appears. Ick. This water is bitter. God makes it sweet. You walk some more. You get hungry. God provides food. (Exodus 14 & 15)

And you keep walking. The tour plan rarely makes sense, but it has a significant purpose. Often the purpose has nothing to do with the finish line and everything to do with the condition of the runner.

Or, in this case, the baby stepper.

Stepping or running, I must move forward through this unfamiliar territory. I must believe I have a purpose, that writing has a purpose. Even if I never publish this theoretical book of mine, my words today matter. Today God will breathe, even if my blog is one of ten gazillion blogs out there. I have to believe that if you are reading the words in front of you now, He has a reason. He has something to say to you.

One of my favorite writers, Ann Lamott, taught a writing class, and her students asked her

"So why does our writing matter, again?”...

Because of the spirit, I say. Because of the heart. Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It's like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can't stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship.

More light. More hope. More joy. Community. Interconnectedness. That is why God has given me the ability, the calling to write. His purpose for me - to breathe a cool breeze of life into a stifling hot and humid planet -is the reason I keep taking baby steps. That is why I have to keep praying and hoping and watching for miracles. Life and breath are the reasons to simplify my thoughts, to write what I know, what is true, what is authentic. It is why I open my fists, allow my expectations to sift through my fingers and fall to the ground, cup my empty hands, lift them to the heavens, and wait to be filled with the miraculous.

20 years and a kick in the tooshy

2011-09-27T14:17:00.002-04:00

“What do you mean you didn’t get them?”

This is not happening. Surely this is not possible. What am I going to do now?

All this ball-dropping is getting ridiculous. Certain balls need to stay in the air. This particular ball needed to get from our closet to the car. Instead, it was hanging on the doorknob of my office at our house. An hour away. And we were supposed to walk in the door of my twentieth high school reunion in thirty minutes. I had nothing to wear.

And I had planned to look amazingly hot and youthful and perfect.

Last week, I bought a pair of skinny black jeans, and I paid full price for them at Loft. I never, ever pay full price for clothing. If you don’t count Costco. And occasionally Target. But these were great jeans. My butt looked twenty years younger. I planned to pair these jeans with a cute silky top, which I bought two years ago at an outlet, and sandals I’ve owned for several years, also purchased at an outlet - because, you know, I’m not vain or anything. I’m not going to spend a lot of money on an entire outfit to wear for one evening. Just one great pair of jeans.

That - again - were still at my house. An hour away.

Before we left our house that morning, I brought our hanging clothes from the closet to my office door, which is mere steps away from the back door leading to the garage. We would spend the night at my parents’ house, so we had all of our suitcases and pillows and movies and books in the trunk.

But not the hanging clothes. Not my hot, sexy jeans. A small detail that escaped us until 7:30 that evening.

So I stood frozen, face scowling, fingertips rubbing my throbbing head. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t move. I briefly considered not going. It was too late to go shopping. I couldn’t wear what I had on.

This is bad. Bad, bad, bad.

Michael - practical, reasonable, sensible Michael - carefully and quietly (so as not to receive a fierce tongue-lashing) spoke up.

“Why don’t we see if your mom has anything you can wear?”

Fabulous. I’m going to wear my mother’s clothes to my twentieth high school reunion. As if I didn’t humiliate myself enough by wearing her clothes when I was actually in high school.

But my mom has great taste in clothes. And for a member of AARP, she has a killer figure. I hope I can look that good when I'm her age. So, sulking and fuming, I followed her to the closet.

She pulled out a few things - a pair of skinny CK jeans, a few tops, a couple of short skirts. Some were too...um, mature for my taste, others were something I would have picked out myself, but not necessarily for my reunion.

I was certain the jeans wouldn’t fit me because they were two sizes bigger than what I normally wear. But I tried them on anyway, just to humor my mom.

Y’all. They fit perfectly.

So do I get excited because I have something to wear, or do I throw myself down on the floor and pitch a hysterical tantrum because I fit into jeans two sizes bigger than I’m supposed to fit into?

(Though I’m convinced Loft sizes their clothes down and tricks you into thinking you’re a size smaller than you really are - and therefore buy more clothes. Evil.)

No time for a tantrum. I decided to be happy. I found a nice blouse and a coordinating necklace. Good enough. Michael, whose clothes were also hanging on my office door an hour away, found a shirt and a pair of flip flops in my dad’s closet to wear with the shorts he had been wearing all day. Then I walked stomped back through the family room, and Griffin said, “Mom, don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” I told him. “You know how you expect something to go one way, and it totally changes, and you get upset?” (ooooohhhh, he should understand that completely) “That’s where I am. I’m fine. Really.”

And I was. We had a wonderful evening. Twenty years’ separation between high school and adulthood creates healed, whole people who can reconnect with each other without pretense. One of our classmates eloquently told us, “I think I had more fun with you over this past weekend than over four years of high school. Gone are the days of popularity and cliques. It was great to hear all of your life stories and witness the amazing human beings you have become.”

We’ve grown up - and out. We’ve enjoyed success and marriage and kids and careers. We can celebrate each other’s company without worrying about impressions. We are (gulp) adults.

Appearances and associations don’t matter anymore. I truly enjoyed catching up with everyone, regardless of whether we were close friends or mere acquaintances twenty years ago.

Which is precisely why God delivered a swift kick to my thirty-eight year old butt when I became overly concerned about what I was wearing. I totally deserved my absent-minded moment. I needed to be taken down a notch and handed some perspective. I needed to remind myself of what I’m trying to teach my daughter. I don’t have to work so hard anymore. I don’t have to worry about my hair or makeup or what I’m wearing. I can be myself. I can feel good about who I am simply because I am me.

I can return the full-price black sexy jeans because I don’t need them.

HA! Wouldn’t that be a touching, profound ending for a post? I have no intention of taking them back! My thirty-eight year old gluteals need all the help they can get.

Guess I have a little more growing to do.

Toes in the desert

2011-09-23T15:46:00.003-04:00

It is time to pick up all the dropped balls.

I had a really good excuse for letting them drop, but Michael is home now, so I must return to my world of responsibility and initiative.

Darn it.

As stressful and exhausting as single parenthood was, I have to admit that I relished the freedom of letting things go. I enjoyed skipping practices and meetings, and the fact that my house was a sticky, cluttered disaster actually made me a tiny bit happy. “Sorry,” I told myself, “you have neither the time nor energy to clean. Let it go. Here, have some chocolate.”

So when I examined my calendar this morning and read the entry marked EXERCISE, I naturally thought ah, skip it. Skipping it is fun. Skipping it is easy. But my good excuse vanished with the arrival of Michael’s flight home. Now I have to jump back on the wagon of productivity. So I probably shouldn’t skip it anymore.

I need to wash the dishes. I must sweep the floors. I should fold the laundry. I cannot ignore the practices and meetings. I don’t have the luxury of letting those things go anymore. I unknowingly spoiled myself into laziness. But now it’s time to pick up the balls.

My ball-dropping mindset has spilled over - or perhaps simply accentuated my greatest character flaw. I am lazy. I do not possess the slightest hint of ambition, and I prefer the easiest path of least resistance.

The road less traveled? No thank you. I’ll veer this way. This path looks well-worn and familiar. The clear boundaries allow safe passage. Nothing ominous lurks in the shadows. Yep. This looks good.

Yes, I’ve done hard things. I married a first year medical student. I moved 800 miles from our families and friends while nurturing a medical resident and two babies. I’ve stayed married to a surgeon. I’ve picked up the slack so often that I don’t even notice. It’s just what I do.

But those circumstances weren’t exactly choices. Life tossed me headfirst onto those paths, so I stood up, dusted myself off, and walked. What else could I do? If given the choice, however, I will always choose The Easy Way.

If given the choice, I will choose a grade-level math class over an honors class. I will choose Physical Science over Chemistry. I will choose the SAT over the ACT.

I never had grand career ambitions. I never figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up - and I still don’t. I am a wife and a mom and an occasional writer and creator - but a career? Where would I even begin?

In the deepest, darkest corner of my heart, I want to write a book. I want to compile all of these thoughts and essays posted here, clean them up, add a little here, subtract a little there, and publish a book. And if an agent or publisher or editor rang my doorbell and declared, “I LOVE YOU! PLEASE WRITE A BOOK FOR ME!” I wouldn’t have to think twice. I’d jump.

But it doesn’t work that way. Not even close. My dear friend, Caroline, attended a writer’s conference last weekend (which I had planned to attend, but that ball got dropped), and she came back with an overwhelming amount of information about book proposals and blog analytics and all that goes into the long process of publication.

I want to write a book. I’m just not sure I’m ready to jump. I’m perfectly content sitting here on my couch, stringing words together that I pray will be exactly what you need to hear today. I like you. You say nice things about what I write. I don’t need a huge audience. While I would love for my words to encourage more fellow sojourners, more readers opens up the possibility of more mean people and nasty anonymous comments.

Where I am now is safe. It’s comfortable. It’s somewhat predictable. It’s easy. I like it here.

How pathetic is that? When I picture someone admirable, someone worthy to be imitated, I don’t think of a person who fears risk. I don’t imagine complacency and contentment. I think of someone who pushes the envelope - and herself. I think of someone who sees the wilderness and charges into it.

That’s so not me.

(I also picture someone of authenticity, who isn’t afraid to be honest about her weaknesses and fear - so maybe I have something going for me.)

I recently began a new Bible study with a group of ladies I’ve known for years. I’m crazy about them. We’re going through Priscilla Shirer’s One In A Million. Two million Israelites left Egypt with Moses. Two made it to Canaan, the Promised Land. Hence, one in a million. Priscilla’s premise for the study is embracing the life of risk and abundance in order to experience the fullness of God and His blessing.

So these Israelites:

After leaving Sukkoth they camped at Etham on the edge of the desert. (Exodus 13:20)

They camped at the edge of the desert. They stopped before they entered. They looked north - which was the shortest route to Canaan - but Moses was leading them south. The scenic route. The forty-year route through a vast wasteland.

No, thank you.

That’s where I am. Standing at the edge of the outstretched, mysterious, scary desert, thinking, Hmm. Not sure I want to go there. Looks kinda dry and dusty to me.

So I stick my big toe in the sand. Pull it back. Sit down. Think. Pray. Stand up. Stick my other toe out. Pull it back. Sit down.

For now, I will do what I know to do. I will write. I will pray, and I will write. I will continue reading about writing, honing my craft, collecting constructive criticism, and I will write again. I will collect thoughts and stories and ideas until my backpack is full and I sense God’s voice, nudging me to step into the sand.

Maybe I’ll pick up a few balls along the way...

Yep. Still can't juggle. Bounce, bounce, bounce...

2011-09-19T17:26:00.003-04:00

The balls they are a’bouncing.

And that is okay.

I am so tired. So very tired. But onward I press.

I remember another husbandless twelve days - I think it was trip #2 or #3 - and I survived by staying organized, keeping things clean, keeping things simple. And that worked.

This time, survival means letting everything go. And that, too, works rather well.

Wednesday night requires slightly more coordination and taxi service than other nights because Meghan goes to student ministry from 6:00 to 8:30, and the boys go to kids’ discipleship 6:15 to 7:45. We live approximately 12.3 minutes from church, depending on lights and drivers going the speed limit in the left-hand lane. When Michael is not halfway around the globe, we can swing it. When he is, we end up with a dead battery.

The boys and I were sitting in the loser cruiser, listening to music, reading books, waiting for Meghan. Engine off, car powered. Until it wasn’t. Until it died. At 8:07 p.m.

Thankfully the parking lot was not completely empty yet, so a kind grandma and her daughter helped us - along with daughter’s husband on the other end of daughter’s cell phone giving daughter step-by-step instructions on jumping a car battery.

I vaguely remember learning that skill, but I was too tired to locate that particular piece of knowledge within the vast recesses of my brain. At least without blowing up my car.

We started my car, removed the cables…and my car died again. Repeat. Rev the engine. Wait. Success.

Husband-On-Cell-Phone strongly suggested a new battery.

Fabulous.

(Did I mention that “fabulous” is my new favorite word?)

I wondered how I would get a new battery when my calendar was already booked solid the next day. Then I remembered. Michael’s car is sitting in our garage. If I can make it to the car battery store before he comes home, I will. If not, one of us can deal with it next week. Or the week after.

Either way, I’m dropping this particular ball.

When I looked at my calendar for Thursday night, I almost panicked. Soccer practice and dance class at the same times, across town. Plus a Tiger Cub meeting. I could have made it happen. I could have sped back and forth and spent the entire evening in the car. I could have worn myself out.

But I didn’t. Instead, we bagged everything. We stayed home. For one glorious evening, we didn’t go anywhere. Nathan tagged along to the Tiger Cub meeting with one of his buddies and his dad, while Meghan, Griffin and I stayed home and relaxed. Read some books, watched some television, ate dinner together without a nary “hurry up and eat! Quit playing! Stop talking! Stop singing! We have to go!” None of that. Just a leisurely how-was-your-day kind of dinner. Just the way it should be.

It was glorious. I’m thinking we need to bag everything more often.

My house is still a disaster. Truly, it’s disgusting. If I weren’t in survival mode, I’d be embarrassed and ashamed of myself. But since I am barely functioning in survival mode, and it’s all I can do to get the kids to school and home and (most of) their activities, much less fed - well, I’m choosing not to be embarrassed. I’m choosing to let the ball drop. I’m choosing to breathe.

The good news is that Michael comes home tomorrow. Tomorrow our crazy lives will return to crazy normal (as opposed to insanely chaotic and impossible normal). Tomorrow we will return to tag-team parenting and family dinners and shared bedtime routines. Tomorrow our family will return to wholeness and predictability and, with any luck, a little bit of cleanliness.

I love ya, Tomorrow.

Keeping all the balls in the air...or not

2011-09-13T17:19:00.001-04:00

I never learned how to juggle. I tried. When I was a little girl, I’d throw a couple of tennis balls in the air, one at a time, while keeping one in my hand. It never worked. The balls just ended up escaping and bouncing, as if to say, “Are you KIDDING ME? Give it up, loser girl. You’re no clown. Go back to your Barbies.”

Why, thank you. I believe I will.

You and I know that all moms can juggle. We have to. It’s at the top of the job description. I thought I had learned this when Meghan was born. Remember the days of one child, one mom, and relatively undivided attention? (What in the world was the big deal about one?!)

Along comes #2. Suddenly, juggling equals survival. At any given time, someone’s needs are not going to be met - and it’s usually your own. And you have to be okay with that. You have to be okay with the smell of regurgitated breast milk on your shirt and in your hair, and not being able to shower or do laundry for days. You have to be okay with a child needing a bandaid or a drink or a snack or a hug and not being able to provide immediate assistance. You have to be okay not rushing to pick up a crying baby because your daughter is finally sitting on the potty and needs wiping.

So you juggle. You try to keep the balls in the air, and you do the best you can, but you have to be okay with occasionally letting them drop.

Women who pretend otherwise frustrate me. They can make you believe their children are perfect, their marriage is perfect, their organic meals and spotless home and immaculate decor are all perfect, but I think they’re just better at creating a diversion when a ball drops. They’re better at facades.

No one can do it all. At least for very long. Or without medication.

So let’s just agree here, in this safe space, that we’re going to be authentic. That we’re going to cheer each other when one of us drops a ball. That we’re going to lay it all out there - all the truth and ugliness and reality of our crazy, messed-up lives - and admit to each other that we can’t do this alone, and there’s no use pretending we can.

In the spirit of authenticity, I share this: I am dropping the balls. Some of them accidentally, some of them on purpose. I can’t do it. My husband, Mr. Super-Ophthalmologist, is off saving the world, one eyeball at a time, in Vietnam. For the fifth time. And I am so proud of him.

He loves what he does, and he does it very, very well. He shares his gifts and serves others because he loves as God loves - no hidden agenda, no selfish motivation - simply and humbly doing whatever he can to fill unmet needs because God loves everyone. He does not serve to convert; he serves because he is converted. He does it because that’s who he is. And I love him for it.

Michael took his first trip to Vietnam four years ago. Our kids were eight, six, and two. We were stoked. There was such an electric excitement about what God was doing, about what He was going to do. We were a team. Michael went to Vietnam, and I kept our home functioning so he would be free to serve. Our friends surrounded us, prayed for us, collected eyeglass frames and toothbrushes and soap to send with him. Others brought me food and kept my kids. It was a family affair.

The next trip, the next year, brought slightly less enthusiasm. The third trip was horrendous. He had decided to go in May - the end of school, which means recital rehearsals, end-of-year parties, field days, teacher gifts, and a whole slew of mess. And Nathan got three staples in his head. Fun times. Michael came home to a fried wife with a side of exhaustion. I laid on the couch with my eyes half open while he pulled out all the Vietnamese gifts he brought us. I didn’t care.

We agreed that May was not a good time to go to Vietnam.

Trip #4 was tolerable. Honestly, I don’t remember.

So here we are with Trip #5, which snuck up on us, allowing me to live in the beautiful landscape of DeNile. It’s lovely this time of year. We’ve been so crazy with carpools and rehearsals and practices and the beginning of school that we hardly realized he was leaving, until he did.

Our kids are now twelve, ten and six. As I’ve mentioned many times lately - because it’s so darn exciting for me - they can do so much for themselves now, which is wonderfully freeing for me. So Michael’s absence is a wee bit easier.

But still. Our family machine runs far less effectively when we remove one of the main cogs that holds it together. We have fine-tuned our afternoons and evenings like a well-oiled machine. We coordinate meetings and drop-offs and pick-ups and homework and dinner and bedtime with precision.

It’s too much for one person to do alone. One person cannot juggle all the balls at once.

So I’ve decided to let a few balls drop. I will miss important meetings in order to feed my children. Griffin will miss a soccer game so we can go to my nephew’s birthday party. Meghan will miss a dance rehearsal because I can’t be in two places at one time. Especially when one is across town from the other.

Juggle, juggle, juggle. Drop. Bounce, bounce, bounce. The ball rolls under the couch. Bye-bye, ball.

And my house? You don’t want to know. The dishes are piled in the sink, the floors are sticky, the beds are unmade.

Bounce, bounce, bounce.

And that’s okay.

Great freedom comes from letting go. I cannot be the perfect wife, the perfect mom, the perfect Christ-follower, the perfect taxi driver. I am only one woman. Accepting and embracing that simple fact allows me to accomplish what I can with a little more grace and a little more excellence. Not perfection. But a tiny step higher than good enough.

Today, I might just don a red clown nose. Just because.

Bounce, bounce, bounce...

A letter to my preteen self

2011-09-07T14:09:00.003-04:00

Dear Jennifer, age 12,

I know you feel lost and frightened, but I want you to know that you’re going to be okay.

So many things I wish you could understand as a twelve year old. But the painful process of discovering these things for yourself will allow you to own them and to internalize them. God will use your experiences to recreate you into the woman He desires you to be.

I wish fear and loneliness were not part of the equation. I wish you could understand that you are not alone, that you don’t have to cry out so desperately for attention and affection. I wish you wouldn’t drive others away with your jealousy and angry words. I know you want these girls to like you. You can’t see it now, but they are just as scared as you are. They want to be loved and accepted just as you do. Let them in. Love them. Find a safe place together. You need them. They need you.

And the girls who are mean - the queen bees - the ones who look at you with slanted eyes and sneers? Or the ones who roll their eyes and haughtily dismiss you? I’ve met them as adults. Guilt haunts them. Most of them turn out to be quite lovely women whose fear has transformed to grace. But some have not. And in twenty-six years, their snobbery will no longer destroy you. You will someday have the confidence to brush off their snubs. They will still look down on you, even as adults, but for heaven’s sake, try to forgive them. Their insecurities run deeper than your own.

I wish I could tell you that most of this doesn’t matter. Other people’s opinions don’t matter. Clothes don’t matter. Cliques don’t matter. The boys who ignore you don’t matter. But even if I could tell you those things, you wouldn’t believe me. Not yet. Wisdom emerges from the dark places of doubt and insecurity, anxiety and fear.

We’re all a mess - even the grown-ups. Especially the grown-ups. We are damaged and broken, and we don’t always know how to express our love. Your parents are no exception - and it will take years and years for you to understand and forgive their failures. You may not ever fully understand, even at age thirty-eight. But please know that they do love you, and they’re doing the best they can while carrying the burden of their own brokenness. They’re going to unintentionally hand off some of their baggage to you, and for now, you’ll be forced to carry it. You will later unpack it and decide whether or not to keep it. Hopefully you can leave some of it on the side of the road. That’s where it belongs.

The years ahead of you will not be easy. In a few months, your parents are going to drop a bombshell on you, and you will spend years trying to forgive them. They are going to tell you of their plans to uproot and replant your family three hundred miles away from your beloved home. In your anger and fear, you’re going to spend much of seventh grade anticipating this move and pushing away your friends, attempting to protect your heart. Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Don’t do it! These girls, these friends - they love you! Please let them love you. Be sad together, and enjoy each other while you can. Crank up the cassette player, dance, giggle, talk, pass notes between classes. Don’t run away. They will grow up to be wonderful, beautiful women - wives, mothers, entrepreneurs. And they will still love you, even though you pushed them away.

I know you don’t want to hear this, but this move - this awful, heart-wrenching, earth-shattering, devastating move to a place where the cliques and the clothes are even more pronounced and important - it’s going to work out. It will be fine. You will make friends - true friends - and they will love you, too. Eventually. The transition will be nightmarish. You will cry a lot. You will be angry. You will be fearful, and your fear will lead to many stupid mistakes. You will hurt others in the same way they have hurt you. You will regret your behavior more than you regret feathered bangs and leg warmers.

But you are going to be okay. I promise. In the end, you will see how this horrendous page in your story produces an abundance and richness you cannot imagine.

And this mysterious God you want to know - yet still haven’t found - He’s always working. He’s collecting the mess, the dust, the baggage, the tears - and He’s going to redeem it. He’s going to make it beautiful. He will transform self-doubt to confidence, jealousy to security, loneliness to community. He’s going to reveal Himself to you in big ways, and He will heal you. Continue watching for Him, dear one. Continue asking questions. Continue wanting to be near Him. He will come. In fact, He’s already there.

I’ve saved the best news for last. In twenty-six years, you will have a twelve year old daughter. And she is amazing. She is everything you wish you could be: kind, confident, talented, smart, compassionate, beautiful, faith-filled. Also, she likes math. You will wonder how such a daughter came from you.

But, like you, she is scared. She feels awkward, uncomfortable, lonely. She wonders where she fits in.

So I need you to do something extremely important. Please promise me you will remember what it feels like to be you. You will spend years trying to bury all the emotions and experiences and memories of your preteen years, but in twenty-six years, you will need to dig it up. All of it. You will need to remember so that you don’t repeat your parents’ mistakes. You will need to remember so that your daughter will trust you. You will need to remember so that you can understand her and love her in the ways she needs you to love her.

She may not believe you when you try to pass along your wisdom. But tell her anyway. Keep telling her, even when she ignores you or rolls her eyes. Tell her what matters. Tell her what doesn’t. And help her to understand the difference.

God is with you, dear one. He’s dropping a trail of breadcrumbs to lead you to Him - slowly, gently, adoringly wooing you to His presence. He’s still with me. And so are you.

Affectionately,

Jennifer, age 38

Fifty-one days til Thanksgiving Break

2011-08-30T13:22:00.007-04:00

Apparently we survived the first week of school. Everyone is accounted for, we’re all still walking upright and breathing, so I guess that’s a good sign.

Thanks to a last-minute (as in Sunday night at 9:00) carpool arrangement, I don’t have to clone myself in order to get everyone home from school and back out the door to where they need to be. Huge relief. Without the carpool, I would have to pick up the boys at 3:00, take Nathan to gymnastics at 3:45, drop him off at 4:00, leave to pick up Meghan from school at 4:10 (half an hour after the bell rings), take her home, go back to gymnastics, get Nathan at 5:00, take him home, then take Meghan to dance at 5:30.

I was starting to panic.

And that was just Monday.

But God heard my unhinged cry of “HEEEELLLLLP MEEEEE!” and promptly sent the Carpool Fairy to work some magic, and now all is right with the world.

New year, new teachers, new school (of the Middle variety for Miss 7^th Grader), new beginnings.

The first few weeks of every school year is always crazy. There’s always a time of adjustment. We transition from no routine to insane routine. The first day is exciting and fun, and we’re running on adrenaline. When the alarm goes off on Day Two, we’re over it. By the end of the week, we’re counting the days till Thanksgiving Break.

I vaguely remember days when my kids were not yet old enough for school. Those were the years of diapers and sippy cups and naps. That was the time when a simple trip to the grocery store was a two-hour circus act. That was the season of buttoning and zipping and tying, of tantrums and tears, of being needed all day long, every day, and occasionally at night.

I remember mornings when Meghan was a toddler. Being the rule-following firstborn, she would stay in her bed and call for me to get her up. “MOOOOOMMMMMYYYY! I WANT SOME BREK-TESS!!!” My ears are still ringing. She would then sit contentedly in her high chair while I prepared hot scrambled eggs and whole wheat toast.

Griffin, who was neither rule-following nor firstborn, would greet me every morning by sneaking into my room and slapping his hand on the mattress next to my sleeping face. His guttural giggle was the first sound I heard after peeling myself off the ceiling. Then I’d stagger into the kitchen and pour a bowl of Cheerios.

And then there was Nathan. I had to wake Nathan and plop him directly in the car seat while his eyes were still half-shut because we had big kids to take to school. Then I’d hand him a sippy cup of milk and a cereal bar to eat while we drove.

Today, all three wake up when their alarms go off, they dress themselves, go downstairs, and prepare their own breakfasts and pack their own lunches.

I know some women miss the days of babies and toddlers and preschoolers, and they mourn when their babies enter kindergarten. While I miss the cuteness and innocence and sweetness, I would not want to repeat those early years. I was not a mom who cried about kindergarten. I totally celebrated our newfound freedom - for me, and for my child.

Michael and I have three nephews and two nieces, all under the age of three. We love on them, kiss them, play with them, tickle them, read to them...and then we give them back and go home to enjoy a full night’s rest.

Two of our nephews are three years old, and our brothers and their wives are quickly learning what we’ve known for years: whoever coined the term “terrible twos” did not have a three year old. Oy. Those years are hard. But for Aunt Jennifer and Uncle Michael, our nephews’ disobedience and tantrums are downright adorable. Because we’re not responsible for them! And we’ve been there. We’ve soooo been there. And we’re so thankful to not be there anymore. So we can laugh. Someday our brothers and sisters-in-law will laugh, too. But not for a while.

Our issues now are not tantrums and defiance and disobedience. Today we deal with hurt feelings and sibling rivalry, peer pressure and school pressure and time pressure.

(Also a healthy dose of defiance and disobedience thrown in for good measure.)

The exhaustion of parenting babies has been replaced by the chaos of the calendar. It’s a different kind of tired. Although they are now more independent and responsible, they still require a chauffeur. Instead of chasing little monsters around the house, I’m driving them all over town. Instead of changing diapers, I’m hounding them to clean their own bathrooms. Instead of playing dress-up, I’m calling out spelling words. Our weeknights and weekends are overflowing with homework, projects, practices, rehearsals, meetings, birthday parties, games, and performances.

I always swore we would never be one of those families. The ones who run their kids everywhere every day, never eat a meal together, pass each other in the driveway. So we decided that each kid could do One Thing. Okay, maybe One and A Half things. And church.

But the One Thing meets two or three times a week. Multiply that times three kids, and you’ve got a full calendar and a ginormous gas bill. The promise to eat dinner together every night turns into eating together as much as possible or four of the five of us eat together. We do the best we can. And most days, that is enough.

Let me repeat, We do the best we can. We know our kids. We are crazy about them. We recognize their strengths and their talents, we are very aware of their limitations. I promise, we have many MANY grand moments of family bonding and fun and silliness. We laugh together a lot. We read to each kid every night before bed - even Meghan. Especially Meghan. We pray with them and for them. We take our jobs very seriously.

So the busyness? I think it’s just a season of life. Just like the butt wiping, sippy cup finding, tantrum curbing season. It’s every bit as exhausting. Just different.

I don’t long for life to slow down. I’m trying not to wish away these days. I’m attempting to embrace the chaos while embracing my children. I know how quickly the days and months and years pass, so I’m trying to soak it in while keeping all the balls in the air. It’s hard. And most evenings, after the kitchen is cleaned and the kids are tucked in and read to and prayed over, I collapse on the sofa and wonder what I accomplished that day. I wonder how badly I messed up. I wonder if I’m doing it right. I wonder if anything should change.

Mostly, I wonder what flavor of ice cream hides in our freezer. Because, man, I need it. And usually, Michael brings me a bowl so I don’t have to get up. Because I can’t move.

Eventually I stand up, stumble to my bed, and stop thinking about all my mistakes and everything that awaits me the next day. Eventually I sleep.

Until the alarm goes off - again - and I mark off another day til Thanksgiving.

(PS: Tell me about your season of life. Where are you? What, if anything, do you wish could change? What wouldn't you change? What are you looking forward to? And if you have teenagers, talk to me. Tell me what to expect and how you survive.)

There's a party goin' on in Car Heaven

2011-08-22T08:00:00.004-04:00

My first car was a 1985 Mazda 626. White, four-door, blue interior. Radio with a dial and a little red line, cassette player, manual locks. My parents bought it in 1990 before my senior year of high school. It was a great car.

I drove that car to college. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I rear-ended a Chevy Blazer on the way home from Lauri Palermo’s graduation tea and crunched the front end. Since we only carried liability insurance, my sweet Mazda stayed at my parents’ house until the end of my freshman year, when we finally scraped up enough cash to get it fixed.

The next week, The Wrath of God hit the Baylor campus. Locally known as the Great Hail Storm of 1992.

But still, my little Mazda and I stuck together, and I took her to College Station during my junior year. We spent the weekends driving back and forth to Waco, since Michael was still there and I kinda loved him.

After graduation, I took my Mazda to Houston. She was now ten years old, bless her heart. Michael had a 1991 Accord, and since he biked to medical school and I worked in the city, I drove his car. My little Mazda stayed under the carport outside our condominium.

Four years later, we welcomed Meghan into our family, but I didn’t drive her in my Mazda very often. My fourteen year old car was getting a little wheezy and unreliable. So I finagled Meghan’s carseat in and out of Michael’s Honda. His two door Honda. With no locking seatbelts. Which required a locking clip.

You youngster moms have probably never seen a locking clip. Lemme tell ya. You have it good.

(Pardon me while I change my support hose and take out my teeth.)

Finally, at fifteen years old, my sweet Mazda failed the state emissions test - which was our threshold for ownership. We called the American Heart Association, who towed my faithful car to an auction.

Farewell, old friend.

My mom asked me if I was sad to see my car go. I would be, I told her, if I didn’t have a brand-spankin-new Camry sitting under the carport.

We drove Michael’s Accord for three more years. To keep the car running, we paid to have the A/C removed (which is about seven different kinds of wrong). The windshield leaked water whenever it rained, then the car would smell like mildew for a week. We drove from Houston to Florida one time, and when the rain came down - and inside - I held a diaper against the window to save us from the mildew. When Michael’s brother moved overseas and lent us his 1999 4Runner, we gave our Accord to Gretchen and BJ (whose car had just died) - along with a thousand apologies for the windshield and the lack of A/C.

With the arrival of Kid #3 in 2004, we traded the Camry for a minivan. The thought of being a Mom In A Loser Cruiser horrified me, but I grew to love my van. Seven years later, I still do. Sort of. I’m tiring of it, and I’m drooling over the Honda Pilot. But first the van has to die.

We drive cars until we can’t drive them anymore.

And the 4Runner, which we eventually bought from his brother, is no exception. It has 186,000 miles on it and gets about twelve miles to the gallon. The mats have holes worn in them. The fenders are dented. The front license plate skews upward, and the radio antennae (yes, it actually has one of those) has been stuck in the down position for several years. The window shield is a maze of large cracks and dings.

Last week, Michael backed out of the garage before he realized Griffin had not closed the rear passenger door. It caught on the side of the garage and hyperextended. With no small amount of grunting, Michael closed the door, but it wouldn’t open again, and opening the adjacent driver’s door required some effort.

We Michael briefly considered repairing the doors, but we couldn’t justify the cost of repair versus the assumed trade-in value.

The 4Runner was not aging gracefully, a fact we recognized every time we wrecked him took him for routine maintenance. We knew his days were numbered.

We won’t call the 4Runner The Crap Car, which is what some of our friends laughingly labeled him. We’ll just say he is a Car Past His Prime. Or perhaps A Car Who Has Served Us Well.

A man at our church, who has five kids of his own, gave us valuable advice - something he did himself. When your child is around thirteen years old, buy a reliable used car, drive it for three years, then give it to your newly-licensed child. Then buy yourself another reliable used car, and repeat.

We liked that idea.

Last weekend, Griffin’s soccer team played a tournament about an hour from our home. Meghan had dance rehearsal, so we weren’t going to join them until the last afternoon game. After lunch, Michael called to inform me that he and Griffin are in the parking lot of the pizza place because the 4Runner’s key will not turn in the ignition. He wiggled the steering wheel, he tried to shift the car into neutral. Nothing.

Oh, and by the way, there’s a Honda dealership down the street.

The stars have aligned, the Spirits of Used Cars are smiling down upon us…

Or God Almighty is shouting, “WILL YOU GET RID OF THIS CAR ALREADY?”

Eight and a half hours (and one brutal game loss) later, we leave the dealership with a new-to-us 2008 Honda Accord, a smiling husband, and a very happy 12 ½ year old girl. Silver, four door, 23000 miles. Perfect for driving well into 2025.

The 4Runner? He’s still stuck at the pizza joint. We’ll deal with him later. We’re hoping to find a charity who can tow and auction it - but we’ll need to work out the logistics. I really don’t want to drive an hour to supervise the exchange.

Today, my friends, another great car has earned his wings and flown off to Car Heaven, where he was joyfully greeted by a 1985 Mazda and a 1991 Accord. “Welcome,” they say. “We have been waiting for you.”

The cars gather and share stories of fender benders, spilled chili in the front seat, baby puke in the back seat, lost sippy cups full of curdled milk. They tell of journeys through the vast wasteland of Houston and the cornfields of Iowa. They reminisce about music played through their crackling speakers - 80s hair bands, praise & worship, preschool singalongs.

As they converse, the soul of a new vehicle forms nearby, slowly birthing itself into being, anticipating its eventual home. The angel cars smile and beep their horns, for they know this new vehicle will serve their former owner well.

The 1985 Mazda putters over to this new creation and whispers,

“Be good to her, 2013 Pilot…”

Sleep, thy name is beauty

2011-08-19T09:00:00.004-04:00

Creeping into consciousness, I cracked open one eye to peek at my clock. 7:14.

I rolled over and went back to sleep. Each time I awoke between 7:14 and 8:27, I thought, I’m not ready to get up yet. I need to sleep while I can. My days are numbered. Must sleep.

I’m not a morning person. Not even close. Most mornings, I feel like I could lay in my bed for hours, even if I’m not asleep. I love my sheets. I love my pillow. I love my squishy pillowtop mattress. My bed is a cozy cocoon, and I am its warm, fuzzy caterpillar, beautifully transforming as I hide away from the rest of the world.

Or something like that. Whatever my bed is, I could stay there all day.

No, really. I could. My kids know how to pour their own cereal and dress themselves, and what’s a few more hours of television? They’ll live. They can survive without me. I enjoy my quiet room. No one bothers me. No one talks to me. I’m exquisitely comfortable.

Except I have to pee. And eventually, I start thinking about a cup of creamy coffee. And my stomach inevitably starts to grumble.

OK. I’ll get up.

After a leisurely morning on my back patio, accompanied by my coffee, the newspaper, and the Book of Common Prayer, I may throw in a load of laundry, possibly unload the dishwasher, briefly consider a few Cinderella chores. At some point, I’ll change from my soft cotton pajamas into my bathing suit, eat some lunch, and head out to the pool.

It’s a tough life.

Such is the summer. But, alas, all good things must come to a screeching halt, and by the third Monday of August (as deemed by the Texas Legislature), my mornings of relaxation reach an abrupt coda.

The end of summer denotes an end to thirteen hours of togetherness and interruptions and arguments. Hence, less hours of whining and defiance and disobedience. Less talking. Fewer questions. Not as much top-of-their-lungs-singing-and-screeching. That I will not miss.

But it’s also less laughter, less playtime, less heart-to-hearts. And as much as I complain about all the togetherness, I will miss all the togetherness.

Sort of.

The buzzing alarm clock will replace my blissful mornings of rest. Scrambling to make breakfasts and pack lunches will supersede sipping coffee on the patio. Carpools will displace floating in the pool.

It happens every year. And every year, I look at a list of all we will have to do each week and the places we will have to go every afternoon, and I panic. I wonder if cloning is really that unethical because I sure could use an extra Me. Darn the luck that I can only be in one place at a time.

I would so rather be in bed.

But no. I must put my feet on the floor, splash some cold water on my face, and fire up the Keurig. I will be the mom in the carline sporting the baseball cap and flannel pajama pants, and if it’s a good day, I might wear shoes. I will make sure they have their backpacks and their lunch boxes, kiss them all, tell them I love them, wish them a good day, and wave as they exit the van. Then I will take a deep breath, soak in the silence, drive home.

Where I will promptly crawl back into my bed and take a nap.

The Hairy Truth (untrimmed)

2011-08-15T12:53:00.000-04:00

Have you seen Mamapedia? If you are a mom, especially one with young kids, they have a wealth of information and advice. Love them.

I've been one of their "voices" for a couple of years, and this weekend they posted one of my pieces. If you've been around The Couch for a while, you might remember it.

I'm trying to let go of the fact that somehow they published the original version instead of my edited, peer-reviewed, and re-edited version that was much, much better. Letting go. Not a big deal. Really. If "Hairy" shows up in my hypothetical book, I'll make sure the rewritten version gets in. Let. It. Go. Aaargh.

In any case, hop on over to Mamapedia and soak in all the mamafied wisdom.

Shopping our way into adulthood

2011-08-12T14:25:00.004-04:00

It’s that time of year again: The Crappiest Time of the Year, followed shortly thereafter by The Most Wonderful Time of the Year. Also known as The Last Two Weeks of Summer Vacation, followed by The First Day of School.

Y’all already know how I feel.

But TCTY involves one thing that sort of makes me a little bit happy: Shopping.

And normally I don’t buy a lot of new clothes for my kids before school starts because, for crying out loud, it’s 100 degrees and will stay 100 degrees til Halloween. They can wear their clothes from last spring. We’ll buy new clothes when it gets cold. Say, 75 degrees.

But two of the three little monsters have hit growth spurts, so off we went.

First, we hit the dancewear store. All of us. Meghan, Griffin, Nathan and me. The boys were under strict orders to sit quietly on the couch and read their books because “this won’t take long.”

Ahem.

That turned out to be a big, fat lie, and the boys were D-O-N-E after 12.2 minutes of our two hour ordeal.

Meghan tried on every black spaghetti-strapped leotard on God’s green earth. The girls’ sizes were too small, the women’s too big.

It sucks being twelve.

But after an hour of running between the dressing room and the showroom, grabbing anything that closely resembled an acceptable leotard that does not require a second mortgage, she finally settled on four.

Yes, that’s right. Four. One for each day she will be at the studio this year.

I’m going to need more chocolate.

Anyway. Leotards selected. On to pointe shoes.

And a second mortgage.

But this particular store was very good about finding a pair of pointe shoes that fit her feet perfectly. Which is a good thing since 1) she has weird feet, and 2) she’ll be wearing these shoes four times a week. The sales girl assessed her bare feet, brought out two hundred fifty-seven pairs of shoes, put each pair on her, assessed again, brought out more shoes, try on, assess, repeat…

An hour later, we owned four leotards, three pairs of tights, one pair of perfect pointe shoes (ribbons and elastic sewn for $10? YES PLEASE), toe spacers, toe cushions, two little boys on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and one exhausted mama.

The next week (it took a few days to recover from dancewear), we tackled school clothes. Did you know Old Navy doesn’t sell denim shorts in August?

Me neither. Somebody in their corporate office needs an autumn vacation to Texas.

Office Max was our next stop because my cabinet of overstock school supplies makes me happy, and 25 cent glue sticks makes it even better. So much of my life is chaos, so having an organized, labeled cabinet full of pens, pencils, markers, paper, scissors, glue - all within easy reach - gives me the illusion that I have control over SOMETHING. Also we dip into the stockpile when assembling our annual Operation Christmas Child boxes.

Then Kohl’s for more twelve year old dressing room drama because we’re out of the girl’s section but barely into the junior’s and finding clothes that fit is a huge ordeal.

Blah...blah...blah...shorts, jeans, deco towels, boys reading on the couch outside the dressing room...blah...blah...blah…

I’m getting to my point.

So that night, after Michael came home from work for some father-sons bonding, Meghan and I left again to continue our quest for Clothes That Fit. After trying on more pairs of denim shorts than any one person should, she and I headed out for a late dinner. The conversation quickly turned to middle school and all that she anticipates...and fears.

Do you remember 7^th grade? Me too. And you couldn’t pay me enough to go back there.

The initiation into teenagehood requires angst and fear and worry. Lots of giggling. A handful of comparison. A dash of trying to measure up. A heaping tablespoon of loneliness.

No longer a little girl - no more princesses and Barbies and dress-up - but not yet an adult. She’s outgrown the frilly dresses and bows, the adorable leggings and sparkly tshirts. But the curvy jeans don’t yet fit. Neither do the leotards.

Sometimes she needs a trained expert to assess her feet and find the right pointe shoes. Sometimes she needs a survivor of adolescence - me - to listen to her observations and fears, to offer gentle guidance, careful advice, words of experience.

(As in, the only difference between a boyfriend and a friend-who-is-a-boy is the kissing, and having friends-who-are-boys is a great way to get to know the workings of the male mind sans drama. Please have friends-who-are-boys. Pleasepleasepleaseplease.)

Our conversation steered toward my own dating experience, and the simple act of recall made my stomach knot. Many fond memories, much heartbreak. Lots of tears. Too much please love me and please tell me I’m worth it. Too little I am valuable because I am and I don’t need your approval to know my own significance.

I hate that she’s going to try on those jeans. I wish we could stay at Gymboree. But you have to have jeans. It’s all a part of earning the right to shop in the women’s department.

I know that Ann Taylor Loft has fabulous styles. Finding a great store with clothes that fit me took a while, but when I found it, I looked good. I tried on a lot of jeans, visited a lot of stores, stood in a lot of dressing rooms. I discovered what fits me, what is comfortable, what is stylish. I learned what styles and colors complement my personality and body type...and what doesn’t. And that it doesn’t always matter what the salesgirl tries to sell me, what she says will get me noticed, what “everyone else” is wearing. I now know what I like.

Meghan is only beginning her journey through the dressing rooms. And I hate that for her.

But the perfect pair of jeans awaits...

Stepping away from crazy

2011-08-06T16:08:00.002-04:00

Five more minutes. I’ll be home in five minutes. I can make it. I can do this. Oh Lord, help me do this.

I’m not crazy. I cannot slip into crazy. But I’m close. So close. I’m a hair-width away from locking myself in a dark closet and refusing to come out until August 22.

If I didn’t have somebody else’s kids in the car with me, I could just pull over and get out. I could stop for some fresh air, a pause, a breath. I could collect myself. Because I’m ready to scream. And either screaming or pulling over would probably freak out these poor friends. My own boys can freak out all they want - at this point I simply don’t care - but I wouldn’t want to scare the neighbor’s kids. I’m kinda scaring myself, though. I wonder if I need medication?

I’m so done. I’m done with the whining and the arguing and the endless talking. Oh God, the talking. They don’t stop talking. They don’t stop asking questions - questions to which THEY ALREADY KNOW THE ANSWER. They don’t stop saying my name.

I’m this close to crazy.

I did make it home without yelling and without pulling over to catch my breath. Barely. But I made a bee-line for my office, closed the door, and grabbed my secret stash of peanut M&Ms, knowing full well that I would feel nauseous in about 7.3 minutes, but momentarily, I felt better. Temporarily, I stepped away from crazy.

As if she knew, Gretchen called right before I jumped, clutching my last fistful of M&Ms. We’re going to concoct a business plan marketing shock collars for kids. Cute ones in camouflage and hot pink. Maybe for use around the ankles, so it’s not obvious. And the trigger button will be a blinged-out keychain bobble, also cute. I’m telling ya. We’ll make a fortune. Probably just enough for bail.

I stumbled upon an article in this morning’s paper on gardening - normally something I would skip over, since I was born with a brown thumb and I can kill mint (who kills mint? It’s a weed, for crying out loud). When I was a child, my parents sent me outside to pull weeds as punishment. Gardening I do not enjoy. I prefer playing inside.

But I stopped at this particular article because it discussed dying grass and trees in this hellacious weather we’re experiencing. Mr. Neil Sperry (apparently he’s an expert or something) said that Bermuda grass should bounce back, but if you have St. Augustine, you’re screwed.

Fabulous.

He also noted the trees are prematurely dropping their leaves as a self-preservation technique. They don’t want to expend the energy on supplying nourishment to their leaves because they’re too busy just trying to stay alive.

As witnessed by our daily use of the pool net scooper thingy.

Water your shrubs with a hose, Mr. Sperry suggests, not just a sprinkler. “Water down,” which means get water to the roots. Check the grass for bugs. And don’t panic.

I need to water down. I need to feed my soul. I need nourishment so I don’t wither up and die. Also so I don’t kill my children. I need to drop my leaves. And I definitely need not to panic.

Music helps, as does reading. Last night I picked up my tattered copy of Ann Lamott’s Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith and opened it to a random chapter, and I watered down. Her words and observations remind me I’m not the only one who is losing my leaves. I’m not the only one who is fearful and frayed. That small acts bring great healing. That anger steals grace. That people are good and have intrinsic value, just because they are. That the earth renews itself and us. That God works and breathes through our moments of crazy and brings us to a place of restoration and wholeness.

Water brings redemption. Water, in the hands of the Master, brings extravagant healing. Remember the wedding at Cana? Remember how Jesus took something ordinary - and, in those days, quite infectious - and transformed it, redeemed it, recreated it into something beautiful? Something to be celebrated?

So it is now.

My life - my crazy, bacteria-laden, poisonous life - longs to be transformed. I yearn to be extravagant and useful. I desire to be rich with flavor and abundant in grace. Just like the most robust red wine, recreated from something ordinary and borderline dangerous.

So I take a deep breath. I count to ten. I hum. I let the goodness in me water down so that the poison and the crazy transforms into grace.

I walk away from the dark closet and step into light.

Nineteen days, voices in my head & baking cookies in your car

2011-08-02T19:26:00.007-04:00

It’s official. I’m done. My kids need to get back to school. Very, very soon - or it’s gonna get ugly.

Unfortunately, we still have nineteen more days of togetherness left.

Nineteen more days of taking them everywhere with me. Nineteen days of sibling rivalry. Nineteen days of crap left all over the house. Nineteen days of whining, complaining, fighting.

Nineteen more days until I have to set an alarm.

It’s not all good.

Really, I shouldn’t complain. We’ve had a lot of fun together, and for the most part, they’ve gotten along pretty well. We even had a few days of Twilight Zone brotherly kindness. And I love all the sleeping. And I only have to take them with me when Meghan is babysitting someone else’s kids.

But I think we’re reaching our limit on patience and understanding. We’re starting to get on each other’s nerves, and like I said, I’m done.

I’m sure the weather isn’t helping. We’ve landed somewhere around day thirty-two of consecutive 100+ degree weather, and I can’t remember the last time it rained. The highs this week are expected to hover around 112.

One hundred twelve. One-One-Two. Actual temperature, not heat index.

(What heat index? There is no heat index because there's no moisture in the air because it hasn't rained since 1942. Or so it seems.)

Satan called. He wants his weather back.

Some of Michael’s employees tried to make the best of it. Lemons out of lemonade, chocolate chip cookies out of oven-like conditions.

Yes, it worked. Surprised? WE'RE LIVING IN AN OVEN, I TELL YOU!

So. Persnickety kids + 112 degrees = grumpy mama.

Geez, lady, get a grip. Quit complaining. Why are you grumbling about your healthy kids and brand-new house with a functioning A/C and shaded swimming pool?

Sorry. You’re right. Much for which to be thankful.

Did I mention that Michael will be on-call during Griffin’s sleepover birthday party? AND during our small group pool party with more than forty of our closest friends?

Dude. He has a stable job.

Oh. Right.

What about all the spiders invading our house?

You live in the woods. Duh. And it’s beautiful. And all those trees keep your house cool and your pool from feeling like bathwater. Spiders-shmiders.

But my kids are wild animals and are incapable of obeying the first time I tell them to do something and I have to repeat myself all day long and I want to gauge out my eyeballs with a butter knife.

Well, what about…? Um. There’s always… Hmm.

Yeah. That sucks.

Time to bust out nineteen days of cookie dough.

Spreading the love

2011-07-31T15:42:00.001-04:00

I consider myself a tiny bit tech-saavy and a lot tech-stupid, but let's see if this works. I made a Facebook page for The Couch. Go on over and like it. (Pretty please?)

Click here and let in a little bit o'sunshine.

Pickles and flab and an evil drill sergeant

2011-07-30T14:09:00.000-04:00

I’m in a bit of a pickle.

Not a huge pickle. Not like a kosher spear or one of those huge nasty things in a jar at the movie theater. More like a hamburger dill.

See, my mom had back surgery a couple of years ago. It took her almost a year to recover from it, and she still has bad days. I have my mom’s frame and stature. We’re both thin, white women with low blood pressure, high pulse rate, and zero endurance.

Which is why, about five years ago, I made up my mind to exercise. Despite all the profound faith analogies, I truly hate exercising. But I don’t want to have back surgery in 25 years, so I do it. Specifically, a butt-kicking class called Body Works. Every Most Thursday mornings at 9:45. My good friend, Lynn, makes me lift free weights until I can’t feel my arms, squat until I fall over, push up and sit up until I throw up.

I’m truly thankful for Lynn. Really. If I didn’t like her so much, I would hate her.

But the gym where I belong and where Lynn teaches has gone a wee bit downhill, so Lynn has resigned. She teaches several other classes at other gyms, but Thursday mornings have been handed over to a Drill Sergeant.

We’ll call her Kim. Not her real name. I’d hate to offend her.

Ahem.

I’ve been to Kim’s classes before. Kim yells. She condescends. She makes me feel like the weakling that I am. She makes me do leg lifts for ten minutes straight while more or less ignoring all the back-strengthening manuevers.

I’m not so crazy about Kim.

Lynn encourages. She pushes. She leads us in a wide variety of exercises that work all of our pathetic muscles. She lets us know that her legs feel like Jello, too. She talks about her young daughters and TV shows and magazine articles in the middle of muscle-shredding reps so we don’t think about how our bodies are begging us to stop and lay down. Lynn doesn’t care if her students modify the exercises or stop completely and grab a drink of water because we are about to die.

Kim yells. Kim condescends. Kim has no mercy.

I miss Lynn.

I went to Kim’s class last Thursday, trying to keep an open mind, giving her another chance. Maybe she was just having a bad day the last time I went to her class. Maybe that wasn’t the norm.

Nope. She’s an unmerciful yeller. Every time.

I sweated through it and made myself stay for the entire hour, but most of the time I was thinking, “I don’t care for your tone, missy.” Can we please lay off the leg lifts and do a set of hip hinges? ‘Cause Lynn does hip hinges. Every week. And push ups. We do lots of push ups in Lynn’s class. Why are we not doing push ups?

I guess I don’t adjust well to change.

The really bad news is that Kim is teaching every Body Works class offered during the times when I can go. So there are no other options at this particular gym. The gym I’ve belonged to for about six years. The class I’ve gone to almost every week for about that long.

Hence, the pickle.

I should try out another gym. I should find another place to have my butt kicked. I should take my flab somewhere else.

Yes, the flab. I will celebrate endure my 38^th birthday in the very near future. And I think the flab fairy knows that. I swear she visited me one night while I was sleeping and rearranged my skin. I woke up the next morning, looked in the mirror, and thought, “Where did THAT come from?!?”

The peanut M&Ms and chocolate covered pomegranate bites must have sent her a memo.

And then there are the three little words that strike fear in the heart of every 38 year old: Twenty. Year. Reunion.

I’ve got nine weeks to get some biceps. And get rid of the pooch.

Or at least find a good pair of Spanx.

And a new gym.

Pickle.

Gettin' my geeky on

2011-07-25T21:41:00.003-04:00

We took a short break last week from the scorching oven that is North Central Texas and traveled to cool, crisp, clean Colorado - where it was only 93 degrees instead of 104. Nice, refreshing respite. Michael had a meeting in Aspen (where everything and everyone are beautiful and very, very expensive), so we spent a few days there, then drove over to Denver to see some family and precious friends.

We left Texas for Colorado on Friday morning, July 15. On Thursday, July 14, Meghan returned from church camp, and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2 premiered at midnight. As you may recall, Meghan and I went to the midnight premiere of Part 1 last fall - on a school night - and we shared the kind of mother-daughter bonding that only comes with doing something a little crazy.

Now that Part 2 finally rolled out, I was so anxious to see it. I reread The Deathly Hallows in the weeks leading up to the premiere, and I so wanted to take Meghan again.

Except that we had to leave for the airport at 8 a.m. on Friday morning, and Michael forbid me to go. Midnight premiere = lost sleep = grumpy mama. And I’m not allowed to be grumpy on vacation. So I couldn’t go.

Party pooper.

Meghan, who had just returned from camp (and if you’ve ever been to youth camp, you know just how little sleep these kids get), convinced us to let her go to the midnight movie with her friend, Jenna, and Jenna’s dad...with a promise not to complain about her exhaustion the next day. She left around 10 p.m., tiptoed in about 3:30, and was up at 7:45 for our flight to cool, crisp Colorado.

She said it was the best movie she’d ever seen, and by far the best of the Harry Potter series.

Humph.

About two years ago, I finished reading the series (for the first time), then I got my geeky little hands on some literary analysis. (I wrote about it here.) These stories are rich, and JK Rowling is a genius. She builds layers upon layers of truth into these stories - children’s stories at first glance, but look closely and you’ll find symbolism, word play, and profound commentaries on good vs. evil, social prejudices, social injustice, love’s victory over death, sacrificial love and resurrection...it’s pretty amazing. (Click on the link above and read more about this. Go ahead. I’ll wait.)

So, like I said, I reread the last book before the final movie premiered, and I began another literary analysis book. I got a little obsessive. I tend to do that when I get really excited about something. It’s kinda scary how consumed I become. (I’m still trying to wrap my brain around literary alchemy.) But when I recognize Truth - especially within art - I want to know more. So I read and ponder and ponder and read and hope that the laundry does itself.

So finally, last Friday, eight days after the premiere, two days after returning home from vacation, Griffin and I went together to a matinee. I was pumped. I couldn’t wait to see this rich, true, enlightening story unfold on the big screen.

And, of course, I was disappointed.

Just a little bit. It was a great movie, and thankfully the screenwriters and the director stayed (somewhat) true to the book. But having just reread the book and studied the detail, and having been so energized by the layers of symbolism and themes and significance, I was disappointed when many of those details were overlooked in the film.

For you fellow literary geeks, below is a list of my disappointments. If you haven’t read the books, 1) shame on you! Get thee to a library! And 2) You can stop here. I’ll see you next week.

If you’ve read the books, feel free to continue reading my ramblings...

Disappointment #1: Emotional restraint.

Three scenes in particular:

First, in the book, Neville emerges through Ariana’s portrait, and he shouts with “a roar of delight, leapt down from the mantlepiece, and yelled, ‘I knew you’d come! I knew it, Harry!...Kept telling Seamus it was a matter of time!’ ” John Granger, in his book, The Deathly Hallows Lectures, notes that Neville reflects the followers of Christ, awaiting the return of the Messiah. Neville knew Harry, their “savior,” would return to them, and when Harry did, Neville couldn’t contain his joy. In the movie, Neville might as well have said simply, “Yo. Harry. Good to see ya.” As if Harry had been gone for a short holiday in Hogsmead.

Second, in the book, when Harry enters the Forbidden Forest with the Resurrection Stone, and his parents appear with Sirius and Lupin...holy crap, when I read that, I was sobbing. James tells him, “we are so proud of you.” Being a 37 year old who still longs for her parents’ approval, that one line slayed me. Sitting in the theater watching the film, I kept waiting for that line, hoping, waiting, tissue in hand...and he never said it. He never said it! So disappointing.

Third, at the end of the movie when everyone is together again in the Great Hall, they’re all just sitting around shooting the breeze. In the book, it was a par-tay. The room “blazed with life and light,” filled with “outpourings of jubilation and mourning, of grief and celebration.” If I were the director, that scene would have been brighter and louder. But I wasn’t. So we get gray tones and chit-chat following the defeat of evil personified. Go figure.

Disappointment #2: Major themes overlooked

In the book, after Harry sacrifices himself to save his friends (as his mother had done for him), Voldemort’s spells don’t stick because Harry’s sacrificial love covered them - just like his mother’s love protected him. (SEE? I told you. Hugely symbolic, beautifully thematic.) The movie completely overlooked that. That one theme brought the story full circle, and I couldn’t believe the screenwriters skipped over it.

The movie also ignored the entire story of Ariana, which explains so much about Dumbledore and gives huge insight into his character.

The frames explaining how Dumbledore destroyed the ring and caught the curse in his hand happened so fast that if you blinked, you’d miss it.

And what about the Phoenix wand? In the book, Harry repairs it with the Elder Wand. So did the screenwriters assume Harry would use slimy Malfoy’s wand for the rest of his life? I would have liked to see the scene where the trio goes to the headmaster’s office and Harry talks with Dumbledore’s portrait, then repairs his wand. Another moving scene overlooked.

Other than that, I enjoyed the movie. Really. But a movie rarely never lives up to the book, which is why the diploma on my wall says “English” and not “Film.”

Now please excuse me. I must Apparate to my bedroom and delve into Ron and Hermione as sulphur and mercury working against each other and together to produce the purified Philosopher’s Stone...

Phileo-fishy

2011-07-13T17:51:00.001-04:00

Every once in a while, my children surprise me. I mean REALLY surprise me. Most days create some combination of enjoyment and borderline insanity with a threat of murder. Most days, someone is yelling, someone is getting his feelings hurt, someone is seriously annoying someone else. On a good day, we tolerate each other. Other days, we have moments of laughter and family fun, and we generally enjoy each other - in between the moments of being annoyed. But most days, at any given moment, someone is peeved.

And that’s okay. Not ideal, but okay. I think it’s pretty normal. Especially during the summer with all the Unavoidable Togetherness.

So when my two sons, who have been known to walk into a room and clobber each other for no apparent reason, suddenly became the best of friends and didn’t speak a cross word for four days, it kinda freaked me out.

It really, really freaked me out.

What happened to irrational irritability? Where is unjustified annoyance? Why is everyone so happy? WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?

(Freaking out.)

One choice. That’s what it came down to. Nathan went into Griffin’s room and asked him to play with him, fully expecting Griffin to yell at him to get out and quit touching his stuff and leave him alone. Because most days, that’s what would happen. Instead, Griffin quietly considered. He didn’t jump on his first response. He waited. Then he replied.

“Sure. What do you want to do?”

The clouds part. Angels sing. The trees clap their hands. A rainbow appears across the sky. Miracles never cease.

The two brothers - my boys - had a wonderful time together. I think it surprised even them. They played together all afternoon - building forts, throwing pillows at each other, shooting foam darts at each other, turning off all the lights and reading books by flashlight. Griffin was The Hero, and Nathan was his loyal subject. Griffin led, Nathan followed. And they loved it. “It’s so much more fun when we ah fwends!” Nathan declared.

Later in the afternoon, they came up with a plan for Nathan’s room to become “the kids’ guest room,” and Nathan would move into Griffin’s room.

I’m telling ya. The Rapture approacheth.

Until we moved into The House, the boys had shared a room since Nathan starting climbing out of his crib and onto the top of the dresser. Good-bye, crib. Hello, twin bed. That was four years ago. Four very long years for Type-A Griffin and Absent-Minded Professor Nathan. They were both VERY excited about having their own rooms.

(Shortly after moving, I asked Griffin what he liked best about the new house. He answered, “My room doesn’t smell like pee.” Fair enough.)

So their desire to share a room again was...weird. I persuaded them to keep their own rooms and enjoy the occasional “sleepover,” which they did that night and the next. Which, as they reported each morning, was “AWESOME!”

And so it went. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday.

And then there was Monday.

Monday, according to The Plan, is library day. List of due books printed, books located, books returned, new books on new topics checked out. It also happened to be the day that Meghan left for church camp, so we were going to drop her off then head to the library. Except that library books had sprouted legs and ran off and hid themselves - because of course it could not be my children’s fault that the books were missing.

(I think we need to just quit going to the library. Nothing but trouble.)

So library books are missing, children - once again - walking around like lost puppy dogs, mama yelling, kids fighting, mama yelling some more, daughter freaking out because IT’S TIME TO LEAVE AND I’M GOING TO MISS THE BUS TO CAMP! The boys, who for the last four days had been best friends, returned to the annoying and irritating and yelling and clobbering.

Not a good start to the week. Here we go again, I thought. It was too good to last, too good to be true.

We renewed the temporarily misplaced books, got Meghan to the bus, and went to Target. It didn’t take long for the obligatory “can I get this? PLEEESE?”

That’s when I pulled a Kevin Leman. “I didn’t really like the way you were treating each other this morning. No.”

When Mama ain’t happy, you’d better straighten up and fly right, or it’s gonna get ugly.

It didn’t take them long to figure that out.

By the time we got to the library, Nathan was climbing to the back of the van to hug his brother (who pushed him off...but at least he was nice about it). Since then, they’ve had moments where they annoy each other, but they’re quicker to forgive and move on. They still tattle on each other and complain about the injustice of supposed favoritism or undue privilege - but after a quick reminder about how much better life is when they play nice, they get back on course.

Parenthood has taught me so much about life and the character of God. Of course life is sweeter when we all play nice. Of course God is happier when His children love each other. Of course we need to choose to forgive and love and move on. How easily I forget. We all get annoyed. We all get frustrated. We all want to clobber someone. We need to get over it.

Miracles never cease.

Love Letters, 17 years later

2011-07-06T22:50:00.002-04:00

At last, the remaining boxes have been emptied. Mostly. The final step of our move-in to The House involved the pictures, knick-knacks, decorative items - and with the assistance of my beautiful and talented friend, we were able to find a place for (most) everything. Gretchen has an amazing eye, no doubt developed by all the years and years we shared of poring over magazines and interior decorating websites and HGTV, dreaming of the day when we could build our dream homes. Two boxes of “leftovers” now reside in my closet under the front stairs, and I’m not sure if they will ever find a home - which is okay. The house has an open floor plan that limits our wall space, so some things just have to stay in the boxes.

Another pile of boxes sits in our garage, quickly becoming a spider playground. These boxes contain all the “why do we still have this?” items. Lots of brass candlesticks, lots of forest green and burgundy, lots of 1995 tackyness. As soon as we itemize all the crap treasures, the spiders’ playground will relocate to the nearest Goodwill or Salvation Army or the next charity who does a scheduled neighborhood pickup.

So the pictures are hung, the silk plants and lanterns and crosses thoughtfully placed, the final leftovers in the garage or the closet. Relief.

Then Michael visited his mom in the house where she has lived for thirty-five years, the house where he grew up, the house that still holds a veritable minefield collection of buried crap treasure that his mom is ready to clean out. Ten years ago, this would have concerned me greatly. But I know my husband, and I know that my aversion to unnecessary “stuff” has rubbed off on him, so I trust him not to come home with a truck-full of additional “why do we still have this?” Thank goodness. He passed over the stained Young Life t-shirt and the Kool-Aid backpack that, as an endearingly goofy college student, he earned by saving Kool-Aid points. He decided to forego the glaringly inexpensive 1990s Dallas Mavericks give-away duffel bag and the broken pieces of games and toys long forgotten.

Underneath the piles of unsentimental, unusable, unnecessary tokens of years past, lay three boxes: a shoe box, a small packing box, and a shirt box. Inside these boxes, he found countless envelopes, each holding greeting cards, folded sheets of notebook paper, typing paper, blue-gray stationery embossed with “Dear Michael” in bright blue ink at the top of the page - a thoughtful and clever gift to a passionate, eager, naive young woman when she transferred from Baylor to Texas A&M at the beginning of her junior year, six months after they began dating.

The cards and letters are filled with optimism and promise, devotion and passion, affirmation and encouragement. They reveal a breadth of faith and unrelenting trust in God, an unquestioning love for Jesus, a willingness to obey whatever He may require. Sometimes silly, sometimes hopelessly romantic, they tell a story of two idealistic kids completely, head-over-heels in love, impatiently anxious for their life together to begin.

In one card, sent during our engagement while we were attending different universities and seeing each other only on the weekends, I wrote, “I can’t wait until I get to see you every day!”

Seventeen years later, I read this and chuckled. Then I laughed. My laugh quickly transformed into a dramatic guffaw, and I doubled over, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, stomping my feet, gasping for breath. Oh sweet, innocent, infatuated twenty year old. You had no idea what that would someday mean.

Michael didn’t appreciate the humor quite as much as I did.

And seventeen years later, as I read all the words I had written, words of hope and idealism and romanticism, I didn’t recognize myself. Seventeen years of disappointment and disillusionment have clouded my perspective, and the optimism of my late adolescence has yielded to the skepticism and cynicism of an adult. The distinct lines of black and white have blurred into painful shades of gray, leaving me lost and doubtful and confused. What is right and what is wrong has become less defined. We’ve watched our friends’ and family’s marriages - those we once admired and thought impenetrable - crumble into painful divorce. We’ve experienced the deaths of those we love - some unexpected, senseless, unjust; others anticipated and unsurprising but nonetheless heartbreaking. We’ve taken many turns along our proverbial path, and sometimes we’ve gotten lost. Sometimes it’s rather dark. Along our journey together for the last seventeen years, God has grown more mysterious, less predictable, less likely to fit into a tidy box of our choosing. We still love Him, we still trust Him, we still love each other, but we have been wounded. Life is not as simple as it was seventeen years ago.

Simplicity has been replaced with busyness. Heartfelt conversations of “tell me what you’re thinking” have slipped into to-do lists and agendas and the minutia of incidental details. Romance has no place on a calendar.

Yet today we love each other more deeply, more quietly, more certainly than we did seventeen years ago. We’ve walked together through birth and death, and we’ve wondered how all the bills will get paid. We’ve struggled through career demands, colicky newborns, obstinate toddlers, teacher conferences. We’ve laid awake at night wondering if our mistakes of the previous day will be reparable. We’ve yelled at each other, thrown things at each other, stormed out of rooms, slammed doors. We’ve gazed at each other in awe, wondering what each of us could have possibly done to deserve such love and commitment. We’ve rolled our eyes at each other’s idiosyncrasies - those things that were so endearing while we were dating eventually became the very things that made us crazy with annoyance. We’ve laughed together - those deep, belly laughs that leave us gasping for breath - we’ve sat together for hours in silence, words not needed, each feeling completely content. All of the struggle, all of the heartache, all of the experiences have only deepened our devotion to each other. The giddy infatuation and adoration of our dating years quietly transformed into unyielding commitment and subdued acceptance.

Our boundless, unwavering faith of our youth has also metamorphosed into a bedrock of stability. We love God today with more awe, greater thankfulness, deeper humility. We love and serve the world around us with compassion we were incapable of feeling seventeen years ago. Life had not yet afforded us the experiences which birth such empathy. Our perspective and our ideology have expanded in ways that would have probably shocked and shamed our twenty year old selves.

Yet in between the optimistic lines on the faded paper lies a reminder, a hint of a buried gem. The passion of our faith, the infatuation and devotion we shared with each other - we still have that. Somewhere. Seventeen years hasn’t erased it. But it may take a little effort to uncover it. Reading and rereading and rereading our love letters reminds us of why we fell in love, why we chose to spend our lives committed to each other, what it was that we treasured and valued and appreciated about each other. Rereading our letters reminds us of the fervor with which we followed God, the abandon, the longing to know Him more intimately. Our former selves speak to our present selves. See? they insist, this is still you. You are still capable of this kind of passion. You can still love with this kind of fervor. You can still see each other - and God Himself - with fresh eyes, with untainted vision. Despite the disappointment, despite the disillusionment, you’re still you. Put down the iPhone, turn off the television, lay aside your calendars and agendas and stacks of bills and bank statements - and look at each other.

Remember. Rekindle. Recommit. And keep going.

Homecoming. A Repeat Episode.

2011-06-25T22:12:00.000-04:00

OK. Really. I promise I'm going to write more. Next week.

Even though we're in the throws of summer, life has been very full. Our dearest friends spent two weeks with us in our home, and they left yesterday, and now we're all depressed and sad and lost. The house is strangely quiet, and we hate it. (Their absence and the quiet, not the house. Still love the house.) You know you have the best friends in the entire universe when ten people can live in one house for two weeks, and it's not enough. We desperately want more time together. Yet we agree that even if they stayed here for a month, we would still cry and feel just as lost and sad and alone.

So in honor of great friends everywhere and the suckiness of good-bye, I'm offering this repost of something I wrote after one of our visits in 2009.

I'll give you something new and original as soon as I pick myself up off the floor and stop crying.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You have to put your coat on.”

Honestly, why is this such a battle? We’re about to step outside the Cleveland airport into a blast of snowy, chilly air (if you agree that -11 degrees is chilly), and my daughter, fully equipped with her mother’s stubborn streak, does not want to wear a coat. I’m hot, she says. It’s dangerously cold outside, I reply. She grudgingly rolls her eyes, shoves her arms into her coat, and wears it for the 23 seconds it takes to get into our friends’ waiting car, then immediately takes it off again.

I remember this kind of cold. I haven’t experienced it for almost five years, but knowing when not to inhale through your nose for fear of burning pain and freezing your nose hairs is the kind of life experience that never leaves you. We lived in Iowa for four years during my husband’s residency and fellowship years, and our first winter living outside of Texas was the coldest that Iowa had in twenty-five years. I vividly remember walking outside one afternoon in January to check the mail, and the air was noticeably warmer. It was 15 degrees that day.

Oddly enough, returning to that kind of frigid climate was like coming home. It was stepping into something very familiar. You would think after growing up in Texas and living here again for the last five years that my body would have readjusted to our mild temperatures and gone into shock in the bitter Midwest cold. But no. The familiarity was a little odd, but strangely comforting. Somehow it was as if I had never left.

Maybe it had something to do with the company. My older two kids and I spent the long holiday weekend with our very best friends – the same ones we met while living in Iowa. Our kids were all born within months of each other, our husbands share similar careers, and Gretchen and I share a love for peanut M&Ms and comfy couches. Both of our families left the state at the same time and moved to opposite ends of the country. We only see each other twice a year, but without fail, every visit is like coming home. We jump up and down and hug each other fiercely, we laugh and kiss and squeal, then each of us slips comfortably into place and immediately resumes the precious friendship we’ve shared for the last eight years. We are home.

And yet, it seems, as soon as we reunite, we must leave. Our time together is always far too short. On our last night together in Iowa, we started a tradition of marking the bitter departure with the sugary sweetness of ice cream sundaes in hopes that dessert would make the leaving a little easier. (It never does.) We linger and try to hold on as long as we can – we’ve nicknamed our daughters “The Velcro Sisters” in honor of their unrelenting good-bye hugs – but inevitably, we have to pry their arms apart and get on that stinkin’ airplane.

The days following our departures are even worse. My son wept as he lay down to sleep that night and again while brushing his teeth the next morning. My daughter prayed that God would help her not miss her friends so much. One thousand miles away, their sibling-friends moped around the house and repeated over and over again, “I wish they were still here.” Gretchen later told me that she tried to put on a happy face and remind them of how we would see each other again in a few months and how blessed we are to have the kind of friends that we miss so much …but inside she was thinking, “Man, this stinks.” My sentiments exactly.

It’s so hard to leave home. After leaving our beloved friends, I started thinking about “home.” I know that in an eternal sense, this world is not my home. I catch glimpses of my true Home every once in a while – when I lift my hands in worship, when I experience God’s inexplicable and illogical peace, when I am surrounded by laughter and sisterhood – and I taste just how glorious it will someday be. A temporary hint of what my mind and my heart cannot possibly comprehend.

The sweetness of communion makes the separation painful. Just as we have to get on that plane and go back to our house, those heavenly moments are all too often replaced by the frustrating and painful details of life here on Earth. Man, this stinks.

But the painful separation makes the coming home even sweeter. Someday we will be home for good. Endless welcoming hugs. Resounding laughter and squeals. Familiar faces. Only hello – never good-bye. The open wounds of our separation and sadness will be forever healed, and we will be made whole. Complete. United.

For now, however, we will shove our arms into our coats, soak in the moments of joy, dread the moments of separation, and wait hopefully and patiently for the day when we will never have to say good-bye.

Caution: waking up a sleeping mama could result in serious injury or loss of life...

2011-06-08T23:14:00.001-04:00

Moms have a responsibility to teach their young ‘uns a few safety rules.

Look both ways before you cross the street.
Never take candy from a stranger.
Wait 30 minutes after eating before you resume swimming.
Wash your hands.
Never, ever wake a sleeping mama.

Break any of these rules, and you risk life and limb.

Especially #5.

Which, apparently, I need to emphasize a little more emphatically.

As previously stated, we survived the whirlwind that is the end of school. I don’t remember much about it, but I’m still here, and my kids are still alive, so I guess that means we survived. Every year, following the survival, we sleep. More specifically, I sleep. I don’t set an alarm, I wake up when I wake up, and most days I lay in my bed until I feel like getting up. About thirty minutes or so. It’s how I roll. I thought I had made that crystal clear.

I love my bed. I really, really, REALLY love my bed.

So I didn’t think much about my charming, mop-headed 9 year old’s announcement that he “has a great surprise for me tomorrow morning.”

Late in the day, he was invited to spend the night with a friend. Which turned out to be most fortuitous for him. Otherwise he might be dead, and I might be in jail.

I fell into my most comfortable, comforting, luxuriously soft and cozy bed about 11:00 that night. Have I mentioned how much I love my bed? Especially when I can stay in it for a glorious nine hours.

Except when my punk son sets the alarm on my phone to go off at 6:00 a.m.

When I heard the evil electronic jingle-jangle, I jumped out of bed and immediately knew the culprit. Punk.

I trudged through my fog and stomped up the stairs, making a beeline for his room. I flipped on the light, stared at his empty bed, and snarled, “WHERE ARE YOU?”

Oh. Right. He’s sleeping over. Lucky for him.

I never really went back to sleep. I sort of rested, but I had to get up by 8:30 to let the drywall guy inside to repair the hole in the wall caused by a runaway mini-fridge.

That’s another story.

Friend’s mom called about the same time and wanted to know if The Punk could stay and play for the day.

“Um, no. I need him to come home right now.”

A few minutes later, he walks in the door with this half grin-half smirk on his face.

He really thought I thought he was funny. That waking up at 6:00 am on the second day of summer vacation was funny.

He was grossly mistaken.

To my credit, I didn’t yell. I didn’t scream. I didn’t hang him upside down and slowly rip off his fingernails. But I did let him know in no uncertain terms that he had made a HUGE mistake.

“You know what happens when I wake up early? I don’t get enough sleep. And when I’m sleepy? I’m EXTREMELY grumpy. Clearly you did not think this through. Please go to your room and don’t come out.”

Amidst his astounded disbelief and stunned protestations, he managed to make it to his room. He came down about thirty minutes later.

“I know how to make it up to you, Mom. I’ll stay up tonight and watch the entire Mavericks game…”(um, there better be a second part to this plan) “and then I’ll set my alarm for 5:00 a.m.”

No, I told him. That will do no good for either of us. That will only make you tired and grumpy, which will make me even more grumpy. Go back to your room.

He came back down after another thirty minutes with Plan B.

“I’ll wash all the dishes today and make lunch for everyone.”

OK. Sounds good to me. Now go back to your room. I’m not quite ready to look at you yet.

Michael called later in the day, and Griffin answered the phone. “Mom’s really mad,” he told his dad. “She can’t take a joke.”

“Son,” my dearest soulmate promptly replied, “you obviously don’t know your mother very well.”

My punk baby brother thought the whole thing was hilarious. Probably because it’s precisely the kind of prank he would have pulled when he was nine. Or thirty-two.

(I can’t be too mad at him, though, especially since he & his beautiful bride just produced this:)

(I'm so in love. I bet she'll NEVER wake up her mama at 6:00 am during summer vacation.)

(But I kinda hope she wakes up her dad.)

And just in case you are thinking that I need to lighten up and forgive my son and get a sense of humor...rest assured, Griffin and I made up and both apologized. (Never mind that it took me about twelve hours to get over it enough to apologize.) It’s almost funny now. Almost. But not quite. And if he wants to live to see age ten, he should never EVER do that again.

Along with taking candy from a stranger across the street before swimming without washing your hands.

I'd wax nostalgic if I could remember what happened...

2011-06-05T22:20:00.000-04:00

We survived.

My mom called me Friday afternoon and asked for a recap of the last week of school, and I couldn't remember. It's all a little bit of a blur.

But we survived.

I was talking with some other moms this week about our kids graduating from kindergarten, and we agreed that the preschool years seemed to creep by so slowly, but once the little monsters get into school, the time whizzes by us at warp speed. I believe that is due to how much a baby/toddler/preschooler needs his mama. Constantly. Somebody always needs something that only mama can provide. And it's exhausting.

And then they don't need you so much.

About the same time, they throw themselves into sports and dance and music and scouts and choirs, and you spend your days driving a beat-up minivan all over town. You spend your days hurrying them along to the next activity and making sure their homework is done and their chores are done - and before you know it, they're finishing the school year you swear started only yesterday.

I was thinking about the craziness of the school-age years (particularly this past year) when my sweet friend, Sarah, who has preschoolers of her own, sent me this. (I'm trying really hard not to be jealous of this blogger's eloquence and writing talent. So good.) I don't think I would want to repeat those years - I do enjoy my kids' independence - but I kinda wish I would have enjoyed it more. I wish I would have been a little more patient and a little more relaxed. I wish I would have played more games and colored more pictures.

But now my kids can dress themselves and feed themselves and wipe their own butts. They don't require naps or diapers or sippy cups. So I'm good.

Happy summer, y'all.

Hiding in a closet and other tales of drama

2011-05-31T18:32:00.001-04:00

I had a great post started for you. High drama involving sitting in a dark closet by myself while we were hosting a party. You would have laughed pretty darn hard at me, then you would have cried because you know how it feels to be completely overwhelmed, then you would have laughed again because we all eventually crawl out of our dark closets and join the party.

But the post is gone. I didn't save it, and then my computer froze.

I guess I'll just have to create a little more drama to write about.

Three days of school left, then I SWEAR I will write more. After we've survived three class parties, a class picnic, a kindergarten graduation, two award ceremonies, an honor roll breakfast, and a reception at our house.

Thanks for hanging in there with me.

Psychoanalysis, anyone?

2011-05-20T10:41:00.002-04:00

I had a dream last night.

I dreamed I was in a college cafeteria - or some sort of cafeteria - following the IRL upcoming birth of my niece, Naomi. But that's not important. It is important, but not important to the analysis of my dream.

Ugh. I'm so tired.

Anyway, I was in a cafeteria collecting food to eat. I do believe there were cinnamon rolls. But I couldn't find a tray. So I'm carrying around plates and plates of yummy food, trying to balance them without dropping anything. There is a table right next to the serving line, but I decide against sitting there because it would be too noisy. So I look for a table closer to the middle of the room, and I choose a seat by myself because sitting with anyone else right now would be too much. I need to be alone, and I need a little piece of quiet.

Then my alarm went off. It will only go off nine more times before I am free of an alarm clock for three glorious months.

(Most likely two glorious month and one month of "how many more days til I can send these kids back to school?!?")

This time of year is crazy. Truly it rivals December. Every year. I kinda hate it. Two field days, two class parties, a school picnic, teacher gifts, two recitals, soccer tournaments, soccer games...and, for good measure, three parties at our house.

I need a tray.