Snippets

My family and I took a poll and it's unanimous -- Sky High is much better than Zoom: Academy for Super Heroes. Unfortunately, Santa brought the latter. Ah, well...

As I check my email and delete my spam, I wonder why I get nothing but ads for male enlargement. Part of me gets frustrated as I don't have that particular piece of anatomy so why do I need products to make it bigger? The feminist in me argues that there should be equal spam time for some sort of female experience enhancement medication or device or something along those lines.

I am exhausted. Lulu's birthday, Thanksgiving, my father-in-law's birthday, Christmas, Rhys' birthday and tonight is New Year's. I'm always happy when January rolls around as it provides a month's reprieve from holidays, birthdays and family functions.

My daughter was engaging to watch as we signed the family Christmas newsletter. She began trying to write her full name. (She can write E-M-M-A and I helped her with Louise). Then she moved toward writing a large E (one straight vertical line crossed by as many horizontal lines as she could fit, usually four) followed by squiggles. Next it was just squiggles, then just E's, then she colored in a snowflake at the bottom, then she practiced her lowercase a's (which really looked like q's) and she ended by just drawing a straight line across the bottom of the page. I love the honesty of a 4-year-old (a sentence I find ironic as she has a strong tendency to lie). She is not concerned about what others will think. She doesn't care if her name looks the prettiest or the best. She just does what she can and leaves the rest. Oh that I could be that honest and brave.

Robert got me the complete Calvin and Hobbes for Christmas. As I read the strips, I'm amazed at how much I really do love the rascally 6-year-old (hmmm...whom does he remind me of?) and his real, live, stuffed tiger. I read one strip where Hobbes asked Calvin if there really was a God. Calvin replied, "Well, I know someone's out to get me."

Rhys just had his ninth birthday (egads!) and his aunt gave him Peter and the Starcatchers and we gave him Gregor and the Code of the Claw. I love that he is old enough, and enough of a book lover, that I can now give him books for gifts. Of course, he did also get a skateboard with a King Cobra on the back. ("Sweet!")

I also need to record for posterity that Robert was right and I was wrong. For some reason this past weekend my right wrist flared up. I wrapped, iced and ibuprofened it all Saturday. By Sunday it was feeling much better. I was helping Robert with our experimental Seafood Lasagna (for Rhys’ birthday dinner -- which, by the way, was very rich but very delicious! He also requested brussel sprouts -- you know, you try to raise them right...) and I volunteered to grate the cheese. Robert, ever so wisely, suggested that I get down the ol’ meat grinder/cheese grater machine but I didn’t want to lug the heavy thing off the shelf, use it (it’s very noisy), clean it and put it back. “Oh no,” thought stubborn, independent I, “I will be fine.” My wrist woke me up at 5:30am (a great time on New Year’s Eve to be awake, particularly since my children have decided they are old enough to stay up until midnight) and has been killing me all day despite the wrap, ice and ibuprofen. I told Robert that he was right and I had been wrong and terribly stubborn and that I should have listened to him. He just requested a tape recorder.

I had to give a talk in church on Sunday. It went well but in my concluding remarks as I bore my testimony I expressed gratitude for my children and neglected to mention my husband. I have much greater sympathy for Sarah Jessica Parker now. I tried to convince Robert that I failed to mention him because we are one, as the Bible suggests we should be, and so mentioning him would be like saying, "I'm thankful for me," which one does not generally say in public. He didn't really buy it but appreciated the effort.

We missed our kids' Christmas Sing-a-long for the 2nd year in a row. Last year I went to a play and Robert and the kids got stuck for 45 min behind a train as they were leaving for the concert. This year, we all just plumb forgot. Rhys forgot. Quinn forgot. Robert forgot. I forgot (not so shocking there). Grandma and Grandpa even forgot! (Happily. I had nightmares of my in-laws waiting for us at the concert and not being particularly pleased with my latest memory lapse.) Quinn was distraught. We had a very long conversation as I tried to console him that concluded with me promising, multiple times, that we would go to next year's Christmas Sing-a-long. I'm really praying that we make that one. It's a scary thing to promise something a year in advance knowing how well my mind has been working of late.

I learned that cats have deciduous teeth. Robert was holding Jenny and she bit him. He pulled his finger out of her mouth only to have one tooth tweak as he did so. We checked the tooth and it was loose and pointing out of her mouth instead of straight up. We were very paranoid, "What should we do?" We decided (at this point we didn't know she should be loosing teeth) that there wasn't anything to do as we weren't going to have kitten orthodontics. (Can you even imagine the bill?!) The next morning the tooth was completely gone but there was the crown of a new incisor poking through her gums. I googled cat teeth and sure enough, kittens lose their teeth. Whew, sigh of relief. Robert doesn't feel like a big, blue meanie now.

We had ice on the roads and cars this morning. It was enchanting to learn that when freezing temps follow rain, spider webs become strings of crystal beads.

Lulu, Robert and I were all playing after her bath tonight. Lulu started laughing and snorting. "I'm laughing like a pig," she said. Then she got serious, leaned over Robert and said, "There's something in your nose. Stay still." And quick as a wink she reached in and grabbed something. I thought she had found a bogie but, to Robert's dismay, she pulled on one of his nose hairs. Just the thing Robert wants me to blog.

I've scared Rhys twice today. Heh, heh, heh.

These last few weeks, I've been quite happy with only tinges of depression. Yea!

I've tried to write a short story a few times and I find it amazing how difficult it is to create engaging dialogue, something I do naturally on a daily basis (alright, perhaps engaging is stretching it, but dialogue is accurate). An authoress I will probably never be but I've decided writing is good for my soul even if I write the same way I tell jokes: I'm the only one who laughs.

I supposed I've snipped all the ettes I could find in my life, which only leaves one last thing:

Happy New Year!

Baptism by Fire

This weekend I drove to Washington to visit some friends (Tom and Pam) and witness their daughter's (Ryleigh) baptism. Children grow so fast. It is always surreal to see children after being gone for a time. The whole weekend the video clip of Tom and Pam announcing that they were pregnant with Ryleigh ran through my head. Life moves along whether I want it to or not.

Anyway, the drive up was uneventful but I felt I had guardian angel help as I was so tired that I'm not sure I completely remember the five hour drive. We arrived safely and I had a good time catching up with everyone. The next morning we had breakfast and the children made themselves busy playing with their friends and their friends' cousins. I think the only time I talked to them was to remind them to get dressed and when they got hungry enough to come and find me!

Then, it happened. It started to snow. The two years that I lived in North Bend, we rarely got snow. It fell about once or twice a winter and was gone in a few days. Saturday, North Bend got about 10 inches (according to Tom's measurements) in less than 24 hours. I didn't have coats for my kids (they wore their pajamas up and in our haste to get out of Oregon, I forgot to pack them). I didn't have a scraper for the van to remove the snow and ice. But, prepared or not, the snow came. And snow or no snow, the baptism was on. I would just have to drive slowly and crank the heater. And so I did. I drove 20 miles an hour in the dark from Tom and Pam's house to the baptism. I drove 15 miles an hour in the dark from the baptism back to Tom and Pam's house. Many of my friends couldn't understand my anxiety. "Didn't you grow up in Alaska?" I did. But, as I reminded them again and again, I only drove there for two years and I haven't lived there for the last 14. Additionally, when I did drive up there, it was with 4-wheel drive or studded tires. I am not an experienced mini-van, all-weather tire, snow driver.

What I didn't tell them is that I have been struggling with anxiety and depression and that the anxiety hit big time this weekend. I was overwhelmed with the amount of people in the house, most of whom I knew only vaguely. Tom's family was there, Pam's whole family was there, friends were there....it went on and on until voices blurred and faces melded. Then I was overwhelmed with the thought of the drive, less than five miles I think, in the dark with snow and ice. Robert could have driven us and barely given it a second thought. Robert, however, was unable to make the trip with me so there was no one to fall back on. The safety of myself and my children rested solely on my shoulders and we had already driven five hours; how could five miles stop me from attending the baptism? I prayed. And prayed. And prayed. I drove. I made it. I cried on my bed when we got back to Tom and Pam's. I wanted to kiss the ground. I thanked God that the drive was over and prayed that the predictions of rain and warmer temperatures would make the snow disappear so I could go home.

I went to sleep for the night secure in the thought that all would be well the next day. I awoke and was still surrounded by snow. Then it started to snow more. I started to cry. I just wanted to go home. Why was this happening? It never snows like this on December 1 and 2 in North Bend!! We checked the roads and apparently the snow was limited to the valley and the rest of the drive looked rainy but clear. I decided I would go for it. It took me an hour to pack up the kids and the van. I cleaned off the van with my fleece sweatshirt and waded through calf deep snow in tennis shoes to make paths for my children. Finally, we were loaded and ready. Then I tried to drive away. I got stuck. I drove forward a bit, put it in reverse and gave it all I had hoping we could blast through the snow. I got more stuck. I flagged down Tom, who was plowing the drive, to come help. As I waited for him, I looked at the sky and started to cry. "Why God? Why was this happening? " He knew how much I hated to drive in snow and ice and yet here, all alone without Robert, He had sent snow. For what purpose?

As I stared at the sky and cried, I remembered this past week and my prayers for humility. I have been trying to take my problems to God, understanding that I could not fix them myself, and yet I felt like a rebellious teenager with my hands on my hips and my chin stuck out, daring God to help, expecting that He wouldn't and so I would have to do it myself all the while I was dying inside. I wanted to change this rebellious feeling and be more humble, but how? As I stood in the snow, I had the feeling that all this snow was sent for me. Here I was, literally stuck and completely unable to help myself. I needed God's hand to protect us and to keep my anxiety at bay. I needed to realize how powerless I am in my own life just as I was in that moment standing in snow, crying next to a stuck mini-van. I needed to better appreciate how much my children need God in their lives and how much I need Him to help me raise them. In that moment, I felt humble and ready to listen.

I made it home safely -- the snowy conditions only lasted about 15 miles. But keeping the humility of that moment is a challenge. I find that humility is fleeting and every time I think I've got it, it disappears. But I'm grateful for that moment, that taste of humility and the knowledge that I can possess it. I'm so grateful for God and the moments when every thing comes together and I can see that He really is working diligently on my behalf. I am grateful for the gentle whispers of the Holy Ghost reminding an anxious, snow bound girl that this is for her good. I am grateful for the moments when I feel cradled in His hands and surrounded by His love, especially when it is a moment that I am standing in flames.

Silver Linings

We have a broken downspout on the northwest corner of my home. It is missing the part that allows the water to move gently from the vertical pipe into the earth. The consequence is that the water free falling from the open downspout creates a lovely puddle every time it rains. This puddle was the sight where, many years ago, Rhys came up to me with a backside covered in mud and proudly announced that he was making snow angels. I am grateful for this puddle. Every night when I sleep, I open my window let fresh air in. As it rains, the water hitting the puddle makes the most enchanting sound – a cross between rain on a tin roof and the babble of a brook. It is a soothing lullaby that only God could provide.

Every morning I take a shower. I love feeling the heat from this waterfall of water cascading down my hair to my cold toes. I love feeling the water run over my eyes and face while I breathe cold air through my nose and mouth. I love how the water warms every inch of my flesh and washes it clean. The dirt, the germs, the aches, the pains and even the weariness of my soul go down the drain with the old water. Tears don't matter in the shower; my eyes are just another spigot from which water flows. On days when I am sad, lonely, tired, happy or sensuous, I revel in the water and let it dance in my cells. For a moment I am calm. I am restored.

On the top shelf of my closet I have stored a wolf pelt. This wolf pelt was my mother’s. It’s a dark, dark brown wolf. She had it tanned, for some reason, in the round, meaning that it does not lie flat on the ground, legs spread eagle, but instead looks very much like the animal without any muscles, bone or innards. She loved this pelt and thought it was gorgeous. The summer she died she made sure to show it to me and to her sisters who came to visit. I remember it lying at the foot of her bed. Every time she moved her feet, the pelt would stir. My daughter thought it was a doggy. We discussed how this was the very best kind of dog: it was beautiful; it would sit as still as could be for a petting session that only need last as long as I wanted it to; it required no food and therefore, no poop; it wouldn’t bite, bark, lick, pant, etc.. That summer I would place my arm up the tube of the body of the wolf ending with my hand in its head. The legs and tail would dangle down and I would animate the head much like a puppet, further convincing my daughter that this was indeed a dog. She loved her new puppy. Upon the death of my mother, the aunties all decided that this perfect pet was needed at my home. So it sits, at the top of my closet. Whenever I get a glimpse of that rich, dark pelt, I remember those perfect moments from that summer.

I love clean sheets. I zealously horde the pleasure of being the first person to lie upon the clean sheets on my bed. Rhys reads for about half an hour each night in my room so Quinn can sleep and Rhys can stay up and Mommy and Daddy can have quiet time. When I have clean sheets, however, Rhys doesn't get to snuggle beneath the covers. I need to be the first person to enjoy the soft, cool cleanliness.

There is a precious small moment in between sleep and waking; that very first moment I open my eyes and I lie awash in the new day God has made but I am free from any disturbing memories. In that moment, my mother is not dead, my family has not fallen apart, there is no stress or sadness, just a knowledge that this is a new, fresh day and I am alive in it. I can breathe. I can see the glory of life. For just a moment, there is pure joy.

I love the feel of our new kitten, her soft thick fur, strands of silk against my cheek. I love to listen to her purr as she lies upon my chest. I love the weight of her, a little ball of heat nestled at my side.

My daughter dances in her tiara, feather boa and fairy wings while singing "The beast and the fowl of the air, will all have their share, so God can prove that He is there." Rhys reads Gregor the Overlander to Quinn. Robert washes my dishes. The heater in my van works. Hot cocoa made with real chocolate chips and whole milk for breakfast. Wrangling puffles and playing mancala with my sister-in-law on Club Penguin. The feel of a new book. The color of fall leaves. Our lone fish bubbling to the surface of his ice cream bucket fish bowl begging for food every five minutes. A working pencil sharpener. A new episode of Grey's Anatomy. God's whisper that He is carrying me even now.

All silver linings.

Random thoughts far too early in the morning

Yes, the time is correct. I’ve been up, I think, since about 3:30am and have the oddest sensation of being completely well-rested and thoroughly exhausted at the same time. I’ve been reading Under the Tuscan Sun and find the writing at times verbose and at other times compelling – I want to move to Italy. How impractical would that be? I can’t imagine picking up and moving to Maine, much less across the pond. There would be no visits with cousins or grandparents, and yet, for a moment…

Ah, it is good to dream.

Reading, though, how she talks of this house makes me think of my own house: thoroughly lived in and chaotic bordering on complete madness. Is this me? If a home is a reflection of my inner person, what does my home say? My toilet is skanky – is my soul just as unwashed? The cobwebs, the dust, the permanent layer of dirt on my laminate flooring: I have no place; no one clean and uncluttered carved out piece of space in my home. Even my desk, my work space, is cluttered and occasionally cleaned. My home is littered about with things I will get to someday: books I will read, projects I will finish, paints I will someday let my children use. I’m anal and at the same time completely loosey goosey. I want to change, desperately, but I find the more I want to change, the more I want to cling to the person I am.

Today is the last day I have a three-year-old. This is a small death. My heart aches at the thought that I will never again smell my sweet baby’s breath or feel the pull of baby’s lips on my breast. I will never be fat and heavy with my child and feel her kicking inside – that secret moment that is mine alone unless I choose to share. I will miss the nightly feedings, diaper changes, the adorable outfits and each new development. When does that change – the enjoyment of development? When my babies were infants I looked forward to each new step, ready to mark it on a calendar and celebrate with pure joy. Now, while there is still a bit of joy and excitement, it is tinged with heavy grief – my babies are growing and becoming adults. Already in Rhys there is no little boy – he is boy becoming and puberty is walking up the steps to our home. Quinn is somewhere in between. Lulu is firmly entrenched in little girl-dom. She likes make-up, press-on nails, Barbie dolls and dress-up. Pink is her favorite color and she is her favorite princess. Where did my babies go? I rejoice in who they are now but feel such a sense of loss. Where will they be tomorrow and have I done everything I could to ensure a happy childhood and set them firmly on the path to being stable adults who are secure in the fact that they always have a home next to my heart?

I have begun to accomplish a few things again. Peppers are drying in the dehydrator and the house is resplendent with the smell. I keep waiting for my eyes to burn from the oils in the air but so far, we are good. I had to throw pounds and pounds of apples onto the compost heap, which will, I’m sure, be eaten by our dog before they can return to dirt. I put many more pounds into our refrigerators and that will have to be enough for now. I’m hoping that I can begin making applesauce with the apples that remain but, like everything else, I start with a manageable thought (a small pot of hand crushed chunky applesauce) and end up with the world (mixing all the apples together in a big pot, running them through my food mill and bottling the result, all in one day) and then feel so stressed and anxious at the thought of such a huge task that I do nothing and most likely will be adding more apples to the compost in a few more weeks. My thought is that next year, I just spend the $50 from buying apples on buying applesauce at the store: pre-mashed, pre-bottled, pre-worked and ready to eat.

Dad called last night. He and Cheri are planning to come down for Christmas. Does this mean they will be at my house for Christmas? I’m nervous and uncertain and with all things being equal, not sure I want them to come. I’m still hurting over last year’s visit. I need to let go but like I said above, the more desperately I want to let go and change the more desperately I hang on. Is everyone so perverse?

I am in a weird spot with God. We talk, frequently, but they are small conversations, momentary meetings with a sentence or two about where I am. I am trying to read my scriptures, beginning with the gospels as I need the strength that Jesus provides, but I feel disconnected. Sometimes I feel that in my attempts to make my devotions more consistent, they become less impassioned? There are moments my faith seems so strong and sure, my rock that secures me to existence, and other moments where I wonder if I am not just roaming this universe alone? I cannot deny my previous experiences with deity, just as I cannot ignore the promptings of the Holy Spirit, even now. Sunday I read Matthew 1 – I love how tender and gentle Joseph is – and as I read of the lineage of Christ and the foretelling of His life, I was filled with the gentle whisperings of the Spirit, firm and strong and compelling, that Jesus is real and that He is my Savior and that the Bible is true. How do I take moments like that and weave it into washing dishes and folding laundry and making applesauce?

In a similar vein, I have been thinking about mediocrity versus ordinariness. My life is ordinary and plain and simple and everyday, but does it have to be mediocre? There is such difference in the connotations of these words. I don’t know truly where I fall and I am uncertain as to the difference in the actual living as opposed to reading the words. I am also uncertain as to how to make that positive difference happen in my own life.

Of all the thing I miss . . .

Short term memory loss. It is a symptom of grief. It is a symptom of depression. It is a symptom of having children. I have it in spades.

Yesterday I went to WalMart to buy some yarn needles to finish my knitting projects (I needed to weave all the loose ends into the body of each piece). I purchased the needles. I came home to put them away. And now, less than 24 hours later, I have no idea where they are.

In October, I double booked our weekend. We were supposed to travel as a family to Seattle where we would see my older brother and his family as well as my Dad and Cheri (about a five hour drive). We had this planned for weeks. We also had the children's sacrament meeting program upcoming. All of my kids had parts and the boys had especially large talks to give (a few paragraphs as opposed to one line). The bishop even called and asked if I would offer the closing prayer. I cheerfully accepted. Then one of my friends called to ask if I would substitute teach her primary class for two weeks. I said that I could as long as it wasn't this coming Sunday as I was driving to Seattle. "What about the program?" she asks. Wow. I forgot. I didn't realize. How could I have double booked this weekend? I'd been talking about the two events in tandem failing to realize that the dates, Oct 19 -21, included the Sunday of the primary program. We ended up making the drive up Friday night and returning home at 12:30am on Sunday morning.

A few days ago I prepared our tithing envelope. Because of Stake Conference, I won't be able to turn it in this weekend. Also, the envelope has some cash in it so I didn't want to leave it lying in my purse for the next two weeks. I put it some place safe, some place that made sense. I remember being quite deliberate about it because of the cash. Now, I haven't the darndest clue as to where that envelope is. I've cleaned off my desk, I've looked through the piles on my dresser and even emptied my purse (though I'm quite certain that I remember that I didn't want to put it there). I can't find it.

Further, Robert gave me $100 cash to pay on our credit card. He gave it to me at dinner. I remember thinking of where to put the cash until I could deposit it. I forgot all about it and now, two days later, I can't remember where it is.

I didn't like Rhys' school pictures this year so we were going to get retakes. The retake day was announced as November 1st. I thought that I could make it through Halloween and then focus on the pictures. The evening on Halloween, it finally dawned on me that this was the last day of October, that retakes were the next day and my son had severely chapped lips and long hair because I hadn't scheduled a trip to the barber and that the shirt he wanted to wear wasn't clean. We kept the original photos.

I don't remember when I leave home if I turned the oven off or left it on. I am sure of the day planned only to discover there are meetings that I have forgotten or, yet again, double booked. I know there was another, perhaps even humorous, anecdote that I wanted to pass on, but I have forgotten that too. I thank God that someday I will be resurrected, all my brain cells will be returned and fully functioning and I will finally be able to remember what happened in the last minute.

Salty Rain

When I was a child, I loved the imagery of rain being the tears of angels. I suppose that now it stands as proof that I will never be an angel; God did promise never to flood the earth in its entirety every again.

I have been depressed. I have knitted a blanket and am now working on a scarf. Knitting and watching already run TV shows online, that is how I've been spending my days. Laundry stacks up, children run amok and I sit in self-imposed exile and denial -- valiantly solving complex murders while ignoring the reality of my state. It continues, however, to boggle my mind as to why I'm so depressed. Robert has been generous to a fault while I have struggled with my emotions. He has taken all three kids for the last two Saturdays giving me peace for a day. He has come home from work only to enmesh himself in the work of our home. All with no complaint. My children have been children, no better or worse than they normally are.

I went to see my therapist yesterday after not seeing her for six months. As I talked and talked and talked and cried and cried (more talking that actual crying -- yea!) for an hour and a half, I found myself talking at length about the family I was raised in and the dysfunction into which it has fallen. My family has always been my root, my strength, the place where I belonged and the place where I was accepted unconditionally. I find that since the passing of my mother this is no longer true. Each time I try to deal with the grief of losing my mother, I find that there is more grief to conquer: my father's new marriage and how to deal with a step-mother; my younger sister-in-law's bid for power and manipulations to affect that; my little brother's distance; my father's struggle to make his new marriage work; wondering if my little nuclear family will end up like the family I grew up in -- dysfunctional and distant with little communication. Am I raising children and pouring my love into them only to lose them completely in about fifteen to twenty years?

My fears and worries and sadness then make me question my faith: if I had enough of it, would I really be in this state? Why can't I just turn all of this over to God, who is really in control, and trust His hand? I try and I try but for every time I lay my burdens at Jesus' feet, I snatch them back. Do I want to be beyond His reach? Sometimes I feel like I do; I want to wrap my misery and sadness around me like a warm, wet blanket and feel the weight of its oppression. I want to be alone. If I'm alone and not loving anyone, there will be no further grief. If I don't love my children, I won't miss them when they decide they don't like me anymore. If I don't love my husband or family or friends, I won't grieve them when they die, as we all eventually will.

I don't know. I don't know. I feel a mess for all the convoluted thoughts I have. Every time I try to find a path through the fog, I feel diverted to another path and on and on it goes through the maze until I find myself back where I started. So while I know that Chuck didn't fake her death like Olive thinks but that she was brought back to life by the pie-maker; and that Addison and Pete make each other feel all tingly; and that Dan really does go back in time, not that his brother Jack would ever believe him; and that the riddle of who is Gormogan has not been settled yet, I don't know how to let go of my fears and my hurts and my sorrows and griefs. While I know that I miss my mother desperately and long for her advice, I don't know when I will feel her arms again. While I know what I want life to be, I don't know that God would agree.

So I sit and wonder and write and try to make the maze a straight path. I remember my mother and try to let her go even as I struggle to hold on to the memories that are becoming hazier. I try to let go of my expectations and dreams of who my family is and form new relationships, or even non-relationships, with the people they actually are. I try to find peace amid the emotions of my heart and focus on the fact that the greater the sorrow, the greater the eventual joy. And I try to trust God's hand as to the timing of that gift.

Who's calling?

Looking at my blog, it seems that of late I have been depressed and obsessed with bodily functions. In an effort to steer myself in a new direction, I thought I would quickly post an event that made me smile.

My daughter is obsessed with the phone. It is almost a daily occurrence to have her pick up the phone and say, "I want to talk to someone." (I'm starting to fear her teen years.) Friday we were looking at the post about my mother. Emmalouise saw the picture and asked who it was. I told her it was Nana. "I want to call Nana." "We can't call Nana," I replied, "she's with Jesus." My daughter's response? "I want to call Jesus." I explained to her that she can talk to Jesus any time she wants to but she can't use the phone; she has to pray. She mulled this over as I dialed my sister-in-law's number so that Lulu would have someone to talk to. I handed her the phone. Meg heard it ringing and immediately lit up and says, "Jesus!!"

Ah, the faith of a three year old and her strong conviction that Mom can provide whatever she seeks.

My Mother

Maybe I’m just trying to delay my day or procrastinate doing anything of real import. Maybe I’m just too doggone tired to move more than just my fingers. But I feel like writing. I have been thinking more and more of my mom but I’m not sure how to talk about her with other people. I long so much to do a "remember when..." but to whom should I talk? Many of my friends don’t know her or remember her at all. In particular I have been thinking of the last few weeks and days before she died.

I remember hugging her and snuggling her. I remember that last back scratch – so good! No one could scratch a back like my mom. I remember reading Harry Potter VI to her. I remember her crying over King Benjamin’s discussion of the sufferings of our Savior. I remember Dad and Robert carrying her up the stairs after what was to be her last dialysis session. I remember her delight and joy over all the phone calls and visits from family and friends, particularly those she had not seen in a long time. I remember "dancing" our way to the bathroom as I helped her walk across the floor. I remember sorting all of her pills into morning and night and trying to ensure she got the proper medication. I remember having to sort all those pills back into their proper bottles when they were no longer needed. I remember giving her a sponge bath and struggling with my feelings of, I shouldn’t be doing this but being comforted by the love and gratitude in her eyes and knowing that it was a service. I remember rubbing her feet and putting lotion on her dry legs. I remember her getting up early to say good-bye to my children and to Robert. I remember when she went speedily downhill and the constant thoughts of, "Is she going to go now?" I remember her labored breathing. I remember sleeping on a terribly uncomfortable couch that Monday night, feeling like I was on death watch. I remember lying with her in the wee hours of the morning as Dad attended to other things. I remember holding her hand and just rubbing her fingers with my thumb, feeling her paper flesh and desperately wanting, needing a close physical connection to my mother who was about to leave me for the rest of my life. I remember being torn – wanting to stay with Mom but her sisters were all around her and wanting to be with Dad who was alone at work. Choosing to go to work with Dad, I am so grateful that she called us back when it was her time. I remember standing there and watching, almost out of my body, as she tried to breathe and to talk with Dad. I remember Dad speaking with her telling her it was okay to go. I remember when she died – we all stood around wondering, "Is she really gone?" I remember Dad crying out, "Oh my love," and holding her one last time. I remember that the real time of death was 2:30pm and not 2:45pm as "officially" recorded. I remember Aunt Judy stating, "I wonder what it’s like." I remember trying to close her jaw so she wouldn’t by open mouthed in death. I remember her cold hands. I remember strangers carrying her away and the emptiness of her bed afterward.

I remember dressing her for the funeral. It was joyful with many aunties and my sisters-in-law. I remember that it was hard for me to look at her because it wasn’t my mom. There was no smile and no animation. I remember her cold hands. I remember embalming fluid coming out of her nose when we jostled her too hard. It looked like blood and for one brief moment I thought, "This is all a trick and she’s still alive." I remember having to leave her there in that room. I remember turning to say, "Come on Mom, time to go," before I remembered that she couldn’t leave with us.

I remember going to Aunt Judy’s house and seeing all the aunties busy – busy arranging flowers, lots of Alaskan wildflowers – for Mom’s funeral; busy attaching tatted lace to handkerchiefs and embroidering Mom’s initials and death date on the corner of the hankie; busy helping each other and loving each other.

I remember the viewing. I wanted so badly to be the one to lower her veil but I knew that was Dad’s right. Contradictorily, I didn’t want to go near her because the dead body creeped me out. Zombies scare me and what was left seemed closer to a zombie than my mom.

I remember the funeral. I loved all the words, the pictures. I loved people discovering in full how amazing my mom was and thinking, "Yep, she was amazing and she was MY mom!" I remember the good food and how it didn’t really taste like much to me. I remember hugs and pictures, laughter and chatter. I remember Dad leaving with Mom, taking that last walk/drive to the crematorium.

I remember crying and crying and crying and crying until I couldn’t breathe. I remember lying in bed trying to sleep only to have thousands of memories crowing in my mind until I was crying and crying. I remember taking sleeping pills to try to sleep and running from God who had taken my mom. I remember missing her – missing her smile, her laugh, her gentleness and her love.

I remember coming home and feeling like this was a strange place. I remember having to struggle to remember to be a mom myself and to take care of my family. I remember sitting in church and hearing, "I love you," distinctly in my ear and being unsure if it was my Savior or my mother but knowing that it didn’t matter which.

I remember speaking to my mother when I was in the celestial room and pouring out my concern and thoughts about my new step-mother. I remember her assuring me all was well, that she loved me and that I needed to support and love my father. I remember feeling her close and just wishing I could see her and hold her.

I remember the memories becoming more vague. I remember looking at a picture of my mom and me, taken eight months before she died, and thinking, "Was she real? Did she really do all these things?" I remember my mother beginning to feel further and further away, less and less a part of my reality. And yet I miss her still.

Most days I have a great spirit of peace about her passing and I am grateful to my Lord that she went home. But there are days still when I miss her with such an intensity, when I cry and I ache for my mother. Every time I have a crisis in my life, I seem to wonder around my house at loose ends trying to find my mother and the comfort and love only she can bring.

I wish my children could have known her more. I wish she was still here to grant me her wisdom. I wish time didn’t seem to pass so slowly on this side of the veil. And yet I know that my time to see her is inching its way closer. I feel a need to ensure that my life has been well spent so that when I see her again she will be pleased with me.

I remember that I love my mother. I remember that she is mine and I am hers. I remember that God has allowed us to be an eternal family. I am grateful for Him and grateful that He gave me her, for whatever time I had.

Restroom #486

There are moments I look around me and wonder how did I get here. I'm being very literal. Today I looked around the back working innards of a butcher's shop and wondered, "How did I get here?" The answer was found in my little blonde and not quite 4-year-old daughter who had to pee. I find this to be a typical situation for me. Some people have children who will only use bathrooms which they have investigated thoroughly and have been approved by the local health department. Even then, they may hesitate if this bathroom is not actually located in their home. My children, on the other hand, view every new bathroom as a life-fulfilling adventure; in moments like these I loathe their strong sense of independence.

A couple of years ago I boarded a plane bound for Alaska with a 18-month old lap child in diapers (really, they may as well just give her my seat), a 4 1/2 year old who was potty trained and a 6 1/2 year old who was well versed in all things bathroom. I made sure that we went to the bathroom before loading the plane. However, Quinn's eyes lit up the moment he realized there was a toilet on the plane. "Really?" Taking a child to the bathroom in an airplane lavatory is exceeded in difficulty only by trying to change a diaper in said lavatory; I speak from experience on both matters.

Net result, I have been to airplane bathrooms with small children. I have been into women's bathrooms, family bathrooms and yes, on occasion, men's bathrooms (the joys of having sons). I have been in more port-a-potties than I can count. (The port-a-potties made for the handicapped are nice and roomy but I wouldn't recommend the port-a-potties located at ball fields during the last game of the season; the sights and smells continue to haunt my nightmares.) We are intimately acquainted with every bathroom in countless friends' homes, our in-laws', two local elementary schools, our favorite park, our local library, our church, our stake center in Eugene, our local...no, two...three...FOUR grocery stores and Walmart. We have passing reference to the bathrooms in a few area churches, every rest stop between here and Hwy 18 in Tacoma, Washington (no hyperbole used here), the South Lane Rural Fire Department as well as every inch of local roadway and the vast wooded areas of Western Oregon (okay, slight hyperbole on that last bit).

Today, I add Custom Meats to that list. I had never before seen a real hanging side of beef. Check that one off my list. I turned the door handle to open the bathroom door and came away with a booger sized piece of raw meat. *Sigh* "Do you really have to pee?" "I can't hold it." The toilet was clean, the soap dispenser filled and paper supplied. (I suppose I should be grateful to the know that the sanitary facilities in a meat packing place are so well maintained as there will be no traces of urine in my ground round.) I will also always be grateful that there seems to be no end to the number of strangers who will allow someone to use their restroom facilities when they see this person accompanied by a small person dancing and clutching her crotch in front of them.

But this topic is far too narrow because right behind the "How did I get here" question is the "What am I doing here" question. Again, this is completely literal. There are moments when I look at myself in these assorted bathrooms and, as if having an out of body experience, wonder who that weirdo over there is and what the heck is she doing?! I have made "hand puppet" shows over the tops of bathroom stall doors, encouraging my little proteges to pee. I have, of necessity, used the bathroom while my children were present at some point in each of their lives. I have sung songs to them. I have said things like, "You really don't need to get naked to poop," and "Please don't touch that" with a touch of hysteria in my voice. I have reminded to wipe, to flush and to wash hands. I have cautioned against "sword fighting" with streams of pee. I have asked boys to aim better and ensure that all the urine ends up in the toilet. I have placed Cheerios in the toilet for floating targets; a peanut M&M as proof that the dolly went poop, why don't you? I have told stories about poop wanting to go down the water slide and how much fun this was for their poop. I have disinfected children after they finished exploring port-a-potties.

Ultimately, "How did I get here?" and "What am I doing here?" can both be answered quite deftly with the living fact of children and all their idiosyncrasies and, of course, the glue that holds the universe together: poop and pee. And my strong desire to have to touch as little of that glue as possible.

867-5309

I am continually amazed with the changes of life. We work so hard to plan, prepare and forecast the future only to have "acts of God" suddenly breeze into life and turn everything up onto its tail. I find that this happens with many of my blessings in life as well as trials. I had been thinking about my family's struggles a few months ago when Robert and I watched The Nativity Story for the first time. I have read this story countless times in my life, but new things always pop out at me in God's timing. This time I was impressed with the visit of the wise men bearing gifts of great riches. Here was this impoverished little family who was allowed a short pause in a stable to give birth and enjoy those first tender moments with their new son. In only a few more moments they would be traveling to Egypt to escape the cruel narcissism of Herod. It had been everything they could do to make the trek to Bethlehem and now they were going to have to travel further with very little in the way of material support. In walks these wise men from the East, whom Mary and Joseph wouldn't even have guessed were on the way, with gifts of great wealth. God provided for His son. I have no doubt that these gifts helped sustain them on the journey to Egypt and even beyond. I think about this in my own life. More times than I can count the solutions to my dilemmas have come not necessarily from my own planning or the solutions I designed, but from some God breeze that I never saw coming. His tendermercies humble me and remind me that I am not in control, no matter how much I try to delude myself. Such a reminder came this weekend in the form of a tiny kitten.

I got a call from my neighbor Saturday morning. She had something to show me. I came over and there was this tiny orange tabby cat softly mewing in her kitchen. The cat had been left behind at a meeting she attended, discarded by her owner. My friend had brought her home thinking to keep her. I walked the cat across the street to show her to my kids. Next thing I know, my neighbor can't keep her, but could I? Hmmm....I've been wanting a cat but this is terrible timing. We're cash poor for the next few months while Robert transitions to his new job, holidays, birthdays and buying a pig and half a cow. But where would this kitty go? To the humane society?! If ever there was a misnomer, I think that association counts! Heart strings pulled, we decide to keep the kitty but I am in severe denial. The whole while I'm looking at this kitten and wondering if this is one of those acts of God, a blessing momentarily disguised as a trial. I'm still up in the air on this. The kitten, Jenny we named her, is covered in fleas. My friend gave her a flea bath the night before she took her home and I just gave her another tonight. My husband oh so patiently picked out each flea after her bath, no small feat given that she is a long-haired cat. My husband also set up a little bed for her after her bath on a heating pad. Jenny sleeps right now in seventh heaven. I have to call the vet tomorrow. One of her eye's is goopy and may have a cold in it. There will be shots and now a litter box to clean as we get the kitten house broke. Let's not forget that we are leaving town this weekend and she will have to stay somewhere else. (Thank goodness for in-laws!)

But in all of this there is still that something in me that keeps thinking this will end up being a blessing for my family and for me even though now it is a monstrous burden wrapped up in a few ounces of orange fluff. Right now, Jenny has shown me the marshmallow heart of my husband, an avowed cat hater, who has tenderly cared for the kitten even to the point of letting it curl up with him as he tried to take a Sunday afternoon nap. "She wouldn't stop meowing so I had to do something," he gruffly states to defend his actions. Right now, Jenny is giving me hope that as I tend this kitten, so to will my Father tend me. If we, being evil, can care for her with such immediate tenderness and love, how much more will my Father, who has known me since before my birth, take care of me? Right now, Jenny is proof of love and goodness and somehow, odd as it may sound, a wisp of my mother. Right now, Jenny is the balm of Gilead for my heart. Who knows what tomorrow may bring and if I may still feel weepy eyed over this kitten, who will undoubtedly claw at my furniture, defecate in inappropriate places, meow all night giving us no sleep, require time, attention and money we don't have, but right now, there is a feeling in my soul that this is the right choice.

Gifts of the Plague

It all started so innocently. I went to take a short nap after my boys had arrived home from school. I had been horizontal for a few moments when the boys came in (they still do not understand the concept that emergency means someone gushing blood or the house literally being on fire). "Lulu's tired and needs a nap." Good enough. Emmalouise comes in and snuggles up with me. I'm thinking, "Bonus!" Now I can get some extra sleep minutes as I will have to stay with my daughter to ensure she gets a good nap. Five minutes after she falls asleep, my father-in-law calls. He has just had the cows killed and I need to come pick up the livers and cheeks. Yea. Do I have to go now? Absolutely. OK. . . .

I let Lulu sleep for fifteen minutes (power napping is good even for 3 year old) and off we go. Cow pieces are loaded in the van and Lulu and I sit visiting with Grandma. Lulu won't get off my lap. She's feeling warmer and warmer; by golly, she has a fever! Grandma had open heart surgery four months ago. Time to go.

We head home and Emmalou doesn't want me to leave her -- not very conducive to getting dinner prepared. Suddenly, Quinn is feeling warmer . . . and warmer. Next thing I know, I am snuggled up with two feverish children who both desperately need Mom. Dinner was a hasty, Dad prepared meal of grilled cheese sandwiches. We administer ibuprofen all around and put the littles to bed. Whew. Sigh of relief. We are sure they will be markedly better by morning. Ah, it is good to have moments of blissful ignorance! Phase two hits: the croupy cough.

They hack all night long and by morning my 3 year old baby girl sounds like an alto-ranged, two packs-a-day, piano bar singer. We make it through the morning by the grace of ibuprofen administered at 6am. Then afternoon hits -- happily they nap, so peaceful. Who knew two hours could last only two seconds? They're awake and miserable. "Mommy, I need you." "I'll sit with you for two minutes." "Okay." "Alright, I need to go start dinner. Can I go now?" "No, not yet," says my girl. Again, Dad makes an ad-hoc dinner which is actually quite tasty (I highly recommend marrying a chef). Again with the ibuprofen. We put the kids to bed in my bed with lots of pillows hoping to have them sleeping at an angle to aide in breathing. I head off to Walmart for chicken noodle soup, cough suppressant and milk and bread. Get in the car after shopping and drive out of the parking lot only to realize that I've forgotten the milk and bread. Back to Walmart. Back to the car. Back to remembering something I've forgotten but decide, "To heck with it, I'm going home." I arrive home only to discover that my children are going ape and are having a great time running around now that their fevers have been artificially reduced and their sore throats aren't quite so sore. Why was ibuprofen a good idea?

They finally settle down and fall asleep. A few hours later I smoosh in between the two to catch my own zzz's. You'd think after being a mom for almost 9 years I would understand a few things. You'd think I would realize that sleeping with one sick child is difficult, therefore sleeping with two sick children is impossible. No. In my momentary insanity brought on by love for my children and concern with their well being (it's nerve racking when you hear them struggling to breathe), I throw all previous knowledge to the wind and sleep between my two sick children. Sleep here being as accurate a description as the word slumber in the phrase "slumber party." They hack and cough and twist and turn and kick and wake up and whine and cry ALL NIGHT LONG. They are thoughtful enough to do this in shifts so that I only have to deal with one child at a time. My only thought is of Thomas Paine: "These are the times that try men's souls." Most people think he was speaking of the Revolutionary War but I know he was actually discussing his own personal experiences with his sick children.

Friday passes fairly uneventfully. I am able to make dinner without being pulled at by octopus tentacles. Quinn and Lulu go to sleep, propped up in their own beds, slathered with Vicks Vaporub. Saturday moves along and I see the light at the end of the tunnel. By Sunday evening the quarantine has been lifted and we are no longer the house of death. Hooray!

Seriously, it does feel good to leave the house again. The first time I wondered out in the day light after four days of being sequestered I had a momentary feeling of disorientation. "Is this what the outside really looks like?" I wondered. It had been so long. It does feel good to no longer hear the breath rattling around in your child's chest and to hear a normal voice come from your three-year-old's mouth. (Although Lulu would have been better off keeping the cracking/whispering voice as Robert and I could hardly deny her anything when she used it; it was the perfect blend of patheticness and innocence.) And it does feel good to sleep all night long without interruptions from hacking coughs or children's whines.

In the middle of illness, whether it's a cold or the bubonic plague, it is amazing how important the simplest things become. Perhaps this is one of God's ways of reminding us of the myriad of blessing we take for granted. I breathe hundreds of times each day without a second thought, but the moment that breath becomes labored, I remember what a gift each breath is. My children fight, argue, disobey and exasperate me hundreds of times each day. But the moment their existence becomes a question, I realize how precious they are to me and how readily and happily I would relinquish countless nights of sleep for their continued well being. How grateful I am to my God for my three marvelous children and the gifts they bring me each day just by the fact they are alive.

The Case of the Missing Poop

I read a friend's blog about an adventurous evening trying to bathe both of her children which, unfortunately for her, involved poop. The story inspired me and I began to recall some of my own humorous poop stories. I don’t know a mother alive (or dead) who doesn’t have their share of poop stories.

There was the time when Rhys was about 3 ½ when we were over at a friend's house/farm. They went out to check on the horses in the barn. Rhys had to go so he dropped his drawers and pooped right there in the middle of the barn. In three year old reasoning, the barn was where poop belonged and he had to go. I think, frankly, that when you’re three and you have to go, that poop really belongs anywhere – even on the front porch. (Quinn left me that present when he was three.)

Of course, this same house was also where Rhys’ education was displayed as woefully inadequate, according to our friend, Trent. Trent had just finished breeding two of his border collies and was placing each of them in their own kennel. Rhys asked Trent why he was putting the dogs away. Trent said, “They were just bred.” Rhys asked, “Why do they want bread?” Bread has so many more meanings when you are living on a farm then living in a small lot in town where the only breeding is done by snails (and parents, but generally after dark when little children are unaware that anyone would need bread.) But I digress; this is about poop.

Quinn had the happy fortune of being my bath pooper. I remember as a child one of my small cousins (I imagine around three; that seems to be a magical age for poop discoveries) pooped in the bathtub and ensuing chaos (and laughter by those of us uninvolved). I remember being appalled and so grateful that I was not the one who had to clean it up. How would you get poop out of the tub without touching it? Eeew…yuck! Then I had Quinn. It seems that the warm water would relax his bowels and he would poop. It was just an occurrence the first time (Rhys had done it once or twice), frustrating the second, hair pulling the third and eventually all baths were banned for Quinn at a relatively young age (2). (Incidentally, I learned that you can’t get poop out of the tub without touching it as the amount of water involved means that toilet paper melts into little more than white ooze, really, just poop in an earlier stage.) After months and months of showers I decided the boys should have a bath as a treat. Into the tub they went. They were playing with their toys. All was well. I walked away for a brief moment. I left happy boys and returned to hollering. Quinn had pooped. I whipped them out, scoured the tub and disinfected the toys. I figured since the pooping had occurred that we were safe and as the boys still needed a good cleaning, I ran another bath I placed both boys in it, scrubbed them clean and let them play. It was then I learned that it is indeed possible to receive the same gift twice in one night. That was the end of baths for Quinn for the next year.

I currently babysit a little boy by the name of Jeremiah. He was four at the time of this event (about a month ago). Now Jeremiah is a bit of a picky eater. Not quite as bad as Quinn but certainly not the easy going, I’ll-try-anything eater that Rhys and Emmalouise are. Jeremiah, however, loves fruit. During the summer I have scads of fruit from our trees, my in-laws trees, my neighbors’ trees, fruit I have bought at the store and fruit I have bought from the Funny Farm. This time in particular I had a lot of pears, peaches and plums. The magic p’s. One early afternoon Jeremiah had to go poop. He went to the bathroom and did his thing. As a side, Jeremiah is a bit like an old man. He will sit there, elbows on knees and face in hands, for hours. At least it seems that long when you only have one bathroom and someone else is waiting to use it. (Other people dream of homes with a bedroom for every child, a man cave for the man, a media room and a sewing/scrapbook room for the woman; I dream of two bathrooms.) Anyway, the point is, he takes his time and ensures that everything is eliminated. He finished, I cleaned him up and he went on his way to play. A few minutes later he comes tearing into the house. “I have to go poop again,” he yells on the way to the toilet. I go to check on him and he is back to doing his thing. “Cool,” I think, “He’s self-managing the toilet thing and I will have less messes to clean up.” I clean him up and start to help him pull up his underwear. “No,” he hollers, “there’s poop in there.” I look down. Sure enough, the fruit eating had its consequences and his underwear, as well as the toilet, was full of the soft brown stuff. We carefully removed the pants and underwear so as to avoid streaks down the legs or smooshes on the feet or plops onto the floor. As I’m rinsing everything out and cleaning up Jeremiah, Lulu comes running in. “I have to use the potty.” “Well, darling,” I say, “you’re going to have to wait a few minutes.” (Again with the dreaming about two bathrooms.) She runs back outside and I figure that she probably doesn’t really have to go and has distracted herself with outdoor play. Next thing I know Rhys and Quinn are running in to tell me that Lulu is now pooping in the front yard. I’m still up to my elbows in Jeremiah poop and have no energy or patience to deal with Lulu poop. By the time I finish in the bathroom, Lulu is done and her pile is lying neatly in the front yard. And I am done dealing with poop. The dog poops outside and it sits; Lulu’s poop can sit.

Fast forward to the next afternoon. The boys are responsible for picking up Carbon’s poop on a daily basis. Done everyday, it is a fairly easy, while admittedly unpleasant, chore. Today is Quinn’s day and he immediately begins to protest, “I don’t want to pick up Lulu’s poop.” Oh yeah. I forgot that was out there. “Well,” I say, “it’s just poop, just like Carbon’s poop. Just scoop it up and dump in the garbage bag and throw it away.” Quinn sucks up his courage and leaves to go and do. What a good kid! He walks back in the door, “Mom, Lulu’s poop is gone!” Sure enough, no pile. “The flies must have eaten it,” says Quinn. Not likely. What happened to the poop? “Or Carbon ate it,” posits Rhys. I think we have a winner. Eeew…yucky! Not thinking about what most likely happened to said pile of poop, and feeling quite grateful that I don’t let Carbon lick my face, I say, “Well Quinn, just get Carbon’s poop picked up.” He does and we speak no more of the Case of the Missing Poop.

So far, that’s all I can recall of poop stories. (I was so sure there were more!) Gratefully we have reached the end of our potty training days and soon even our three-year old stages will be but a distant memory and with it, God willing, our poop stories as well. Of course my fear is that in years that pass far too quickly, I will be elderly and it will be my children blogging about my poop stories. Perhaps I shouldn’t post this. . . .

A Monkey, a Deadline and a Soap Box

Today is the last day of September -- of course I have to post something to just get it in on that last day. Maybe it is a sickly fond memory of deadlines and the need to feel that even as a housewife I have accomplished something, but there it is, this impetus to post on the last day of September.

I have been monkeying around with the template of my blog. (I'm a talented mouse as I do know how to monkey!) I am not really satisfied with any of the offerings but, despite having taken an HTML class, I have no idea how to create my own. (Given that said course was taken longer than five minutes ago though I really can't recall much.) I have tried different formats, tried to add pictures and backgrounds here and there, messed with fonts and, clearly, font colors, but all to just have a growing sense of frustration at the overall look. I think I am so keen on developing a good look so as to distract viewers from the actual content. I also think that I have spent more time developing the look then actually working on any real content!

I find it ironic, and completely in keeping with mortal justice, that the weekend directly following my posting on my struggles to understand and to make my marriage work, that we have one of our best weekends ever. I suppose this is in keeping with God's law to never give us more than we can handle. Incidentally, this is also why my children, at varying times, have been given extra doses of cuteness; God wants to ensure that they make it to their 18th birthday!

Church was good today; it is one of my favorite parts of Sunday. I wonder at people who don't have a church family to call their own. How do they survive, particularly when they move someplace new, without those roots and friendships? I love the time I am given to worship and fellowship with like minded believers. What a gift! I miss teaching my class though, in some respects anyway. I don't really miss all the 747s practicing take off and descent in my stomach before every class. As a control freak what I really miss is being able to control the content of the class. Today we were discussing Romans and the basic tenets of the gospel of Christ -- our being sinners and our need for a Redeemer. There are some though who interpret the scriptures to mean that we are saved AFTER we do so many works or such. I don't know if this is what they really believe or merely what I am interpreting and inferring, but it irks me nonetheless, because I want everyone to feel the joy of the gospel and not feel beleaguered or heavy laden. It has taken me much study and prayer, but I firmly believe that we are saved by grace and faith NOW not at some later date, and that works are a by product of said faith and are accomplished only with my hand firmly in His. I believe that we are saved "after all we can do," but I believe all we can do is repent and choose Jesus, "for my yoke is easy and my burden light." Ah, I finally found one of my soap boxes; I knew I would if I typed long enough.

The kids did quite well during quiet time this afternoon and Robert was able to nap (yea, all hail a happy daddy!). Quinn has been pestering me to work with him on knitting again. We tried yesterday -- he has been most intrigued as he watches me knit my scarf -- but his coordination is that of a 6 year old and it became an exercise in frustration for both him and me. He wanted to try again but I just didn't have the heart for it on a Sunday.

Dinner is roasting, kids are watching "Ant Bully," rain is falling, there's a fire in the wood stove (our first of the year), and I managed to squeeze in one last post before the end of the month. All is right with the world.

What is marriage?

I have been thinking about this quite a bit lately. I'm beginning to wonder if there is a ten-year itch or curse or something. I have one friend who is in the middle of separation/divorce/reconciliation, another friend who divorced her husband at ten years and Robert and I have been sticky of late. A few weeks ago, right before our anniversary, we had a few days when he was utterly polite and completely remote. In all our marriage, through rough and loud fights and someone leaving for space, I have never been so scared that he would call it quits.

Last night and today it is I who am being utterly polite and remote. I just don't know what to do or what is my place. While what we have has worked fairly well over the last ten years, I am feeling a shift in needs and wants and desires; I am feeling a complete shift in the workings in our marriage and I'm not sure how to be in this new place. I know that losing my mom and my subsequent grief has been a big strain. Robert has been supportive and so, so, so patient but it has tried his very limits. Additionally, Robert's church calling as scoutmaster and work and mechanic classes and other activities have added up to me spending a lot of time as a single parent, which has been a big strain on me. I have struggled to be patient and my limits too have been tried.

So where are we and what does it mean to be married, to be together for life and eternity? How do we partner to compliment each other, to support each other? How does he lead as the head of our family and marriage and how do I follow? I have been feeling of late that my role needs to be more submissive that I have been. In the past I have fought for every little thing and had a great, overwhelming need to be right to the point of disregarding his input at times. I'm afraid to give in or compromise in some areas as I feel that once I do, he will rush over me and I will lose that which is important to me; that I will lose myself.

So my feelings are mixed. I want my marriage to be better and I feel this transition can go either way, but I am scared to death at the thought of submission. I fear so much that I will lose this person I am of whom I have such a fragile understanding. I fear I will become a Stepford wife or some other automaton or image of what Robert may think he wants but in reality, not something that is viable for myself or for our marriage.

Then too, I worry that my fears are overrated as I have many of the same struggles in my relationship with God. I want so much the grace He provides. I want so much to be a better servant and disciple. I want so much to be delivered from my sins and inadequacies but I hesitate at real submission. Whosoever shall lose his life for my sake, the same shall save it. Do I trust that? Do I trust God? Do I trust the man I know my husband to be and that he will not abuse his leadership position?

I don't know.


I have found that in marriage, like anything else, the more I learn, the less I know.

I enjoy being a girl

There's a song running through my head: "I enjoy being a girl." There are times when that sentiment has been so accurate in my life. I loved being excused from roof snow shoveling duty to enjoy hot chocolate earlier than my brothers. I liked having girlie sleep overs where everyone got a make over and we'd discuss things that boys knew absolutely nothing about. There are times when it is luscious to be a woman. Then there is today.

I know, I know, it's terribly cliche to say that a certain time of the month rolls around and I'm in agony but there it is. I have a little boy that I watch every day. He is here today. Lulu is once again refusing to clean her room. I have to go to a playgroup thing this morning which, when I accepted the invitation, I was excited about but now it has grown to so many moms and children that I am afraid to go and would much rather spend time in my closet (which is only about 2'x4') with the door shut. Following that, I have a parent club meeting at my boys' elementary school where I have been appointed (not voted, elected or wanting to be but appointed) Secretary. So now I have to care enough and pay enough attention to keep decipherable minutes. When that's over, the boys will be out of school and it will be time for chores, homework, etc. Then it's off to Cub Scouts where I get to spend time with 8 energetic (read: run like wild dogs around and around screaming and yelling and refusing to sit still thinking that it is a game to see how quickly they can wear out their adult leaders) boys. I then return home with Rhys and drop him off (my neighbor will be watching all three kids) and dash off to a "Knitting for Peace" meeting, which seemed and still seems like fun, but not today. All this, and today I am gifted with the ultimate proof that I am a woman fully growed.

Today, the only thing that sounds truly delectable is dark chocolate, a good, unquestionably-brain-candy-with-little-redeeming-value novel and clean, warm flannel sheets in my bed. Bliss. Calgon take me away. A hot tub could be good too. But playgroups, and knitting, and scouts, and dragging two four year olds to Walmart, and Parent Club (which has grown so large that I am beginning to understand why Congress never gets anything done) do not!

Today, I wish I were a man. I could write my name in the snow, be a grouch when my hormones were crazy but never hear the words, "Oh he's just PMSing," which is really code for "He's just being a witch but we're supposed to excuse it today because of his hormones." Nope, men can be grouchy and cranky and they are merely assertive. If I were a man, I wouldn't be in Parent Club. My husband asked me, "Why are you going to this meeting?" Clearly demonstrating that he had no interest in such groups and couldn't see any value in spending his time there. If I were a man, I wouldn't have been invited to this all woman play group. Most notably, if I were man, there would be no gift from the gods arriving every month like clockwork. There would be no cramps, no irritability, no immense fatigue, no wanting to cry at every little thing, no feeling like your head is going to explode, no wanting to rip out your innards. . . .

So today, instead of venting at my kids, I am venting into the great unknown, sounding my barbaric yawp at the reality of "Eve's curse." There's nothing I can do but that and take hope in knowing that tomorrow, things will be better and in a week, life will have moved on and I will, most likely, really enjoy being a girl.

Blogger Virgin

So here I write at the encouragement of a friend, wanting so much to be witty and profound and finding I am neither. I'm surprised at the lack of thought in my head; doubly surprising to me as I have so many soap boxes it is often hard to find the one I use for laundry!

Today is a Saturday like any other. Robert is not here (in his defense, he is actually working as opposed to fishing). The weather outside is the lovely gray of summer/fall limbo which I so enjoy. My daughter is sitting on my lap giggling at her picture she printed off from the Super Why website (a superhero dressed by her in pink and purple and named Ariel in honor of Disney's Little Mermaid). She is alternating between smothering me (quite literally) in kisses and holding up the picture right in front of my face, thinking that my attempts to see around her and her picture to what I am typing is just me playing peek-a-boo. I have a pile of laundry calling my name (oh, wait, it has moved and now an actual finger is beckoning me!); dishes with fruit flies buzzing about reminding me that they need to be done; groceries sitting on the table because the refrigerator is full of chopped tomatoes that I need to can so I can put the groceries away. Let's not discuss the current status of my bedroom nor the great guilt of hypocrisy I feel when I tell my children to clean their rooms. All this, yet I type. Truly the evidence of a sick mind.

But, ah, at least I am a virgin no more.