Under the Harrow

Writing is hard today.

No grand piano fell out of my sky; no elephant showed up in my living room. It would be easier to write if something specific was present. Today it's simply low-grade depression, a sudden migraine (with nausea, light sensitivity and dizziness accompanying it), and an increased volume of my internal critic.

When you write, you live for the moments when passion burns hot, words tumble down through your fingers, and perfect phrasing leaps to mind. I am told 'tis best to write what we know. I also believe that when I am most incapable that I have to rely on something outside myself, on God, to accomplish things. Right now, I am beyond myself and outside my strength.

Writing often comes from a higher perspective or speaks of past experiences. Presented problems have an answer or purpose with a neat bow. Words are aimed to teach or share wisdom, not confess lack of any of these things.

And yet...

I trust most what has cost the most to produce. I identify as another person says the refining fire went several notches hotter than they wanted; I understand the fog someone else describes in tired tones. I value those words, that experience, more than a person's host of words on a shelf full of books.

We all have hard days. We all have grim moments when we concede it's a day of meeting less than 10% of your expectations for what you say, say you'll do, and do. Storm or sudden calm catches us unaware, our sails set for a different wind.

We fight by giving of our best, even when it feels like less than a better day's best. I felt the need to write from today's furnace, to share that today is hard. It's hard to avoid dreading tomorrow's tempering heat or halt questions of how long it will last this time around. It's grim to have no clear-cut questions, let alone answers to them. Making myself write despite it all was the only thin path I thought I could walk today. I write without knowing whether my fall will be heard or make a sound in the forest at all, but...

I needed to write from under the harrow, despite it being hard to write today.

Clutching Crochet

I learned to crochet chains at a young age, but it wasn't until college that I taught myself the rest of it. Those first few afghans were functional at best! I recently began making an afghan just for me, and as a treat I'm making it out of baby alpaca yarn. Working with it is wonderful. I mentioned to my mate that I may never go back to basic yarn, and he asked if I was planning on crocheting a lot less. Baby alpacas have expensive hair, particularly Peruvian baby alpacas!

Crocheting is a very devotional experience for me. I see spiritual analogies every time I work. The yarn is a single strand that ends up making an utterly unique product, as God's love does in and through my life. Rhythmic motions of a single hook that doesn't change in position remind me of God's consistent, unchanging character. Crochet pieces in progress are patient: if I set aside a project, it will remain at that state until I pick it up again; there is no urgency or need to prevent decay. God is patient with me and meets me wherever I am, however long it has been since I last turned to him.

Tasks like crochet teach me to listen constantly. I work steadily and stay inwardly alert. Yesterday I felt an internal nudge to stop what I was doing. I stopped, then asked myself what the yarn felt like. When working, I'm focused on stitches or counts, not sensory input. I gently squeezed the growing pile of looped yarn and held it in a clenched fist. I thought about its softness and how much I could compress it, then felt my hand start to cramp.

Insights for me are often a mental guillotine, slicing through my threads of thought and narrowing focus to a singularity. I realized I have been clutching parts of my life, holding it in clenched fists. There's a large difference between holding something and holding onto it. Holding something, I can appreciate it and experience it, but not be injured or tried by letting it go. Holding on to it means I'm actually less aware of it; I'm focused on keeping it, determined that my effort, my grasp, will not fail. I make myself and my efforts the focus, not seeing life or what life gives me.

By this time my fingers were close to screaming at me. I slowly straightened my cramping left hand, then thought how much softer the yarn felt when I wasn't holding it tightly.

Write Now

Though technically mature, I yet retain this immaturity: many internal plans are preceded by asking myself how I feel about doing this or that. If I don't like it -- and don't like it strongly enough -- I often don't do it. This internal 3-yr-old is extremely unruly, especially in the areas of accountability.

Writing, to this point, has been mine. My outlet, my topics, my schedule. Today this changed. Our writing group met for the first time (informally) this morning. I have mixed emotions, which is actually a good thing. If I were completely gung-ho, I'd feel more depressed later on; if I were completely against it, I'd feel bad down the road that I was so negative. -For those playing along at home, I'm fully aware that I over-analyze things. Since I'm the one who has chosen this change, I hope to yank the inner 3-yr-old in line as regards accountability in my writing.

Now to figure out what to write that's more than just stream of consciousness... compiling short devotional pieces along a chosen theme, perhaps. I've thought often of such a collection about natural/spiritual analogies, to be titled, "Without Excuse".

For now, I must handle the situation of my 3-yr-old asking how to be a turtle when she doesn't have a shell on her back. She didn't like my idea of using her backpack. Priorities, you know.

Emptying

I guess a cup is only useful/ For the hollow of its shape
The brokenness in me/ Is the need that holds your grace  
         --"Standing in His Place", c. 2000, Five Foot Six and a Half Music

This lyric from a Justin McRoberts song has often crossed my mind; the images it calls up are ones to ponder. Too often I'm impatient that God isn't using me or having me do what I want to do, only to find out that all of me must be emptied first.

For various reasons, this has been a season of emptying. God scrapes away parts of me I consider essential, I reach a raw state of surrender, then find that all he removed was actually dead weight and not part of his creation. I've added bits here and there over the years... time-tested ideas about myself and about life that are actually lies when I examine them directly.

I begin to see that complete emptying has to happen before a vessel can be filled to serve its true purpose. There is no room for any volume of good if it happens to get mixed with the mud of my pride here, controlling over there, etc.

Emptying the pot is only the first step. Once emptied, the pot must be examined for cracks that I've repaired with wax -- injuries and hurts I tried to mend myself so that my life would appear to be whole. When heat comes, those clumsy repairs will quickly dissolve and reveal the underlying brokenness. Only the potter can mend a shattered vessel, because only he builds with truth. His mending is visible; shattering turns into scars -- but the pot is at least useful again. Once the pot is sincere (from the Latin sin cera, or "without wax"), it can be filled to the brim and put through incredible heat without being damaged or even marred.

I dislike the emptying. I loathe the heat that reveals my waxy mends. It isn't fun to find that patches you put in years ago are actually worthless. I'm beginning to see, though, that it isn't a matter of me liking the painful process, but wanting -- truly wanting -- to be filled at some point and serve my purpose.

One Body, Many Moms

I have become that which I swore I would not (younger readers, take note: be very careful of saying you will never -- God takes pretty good notes!). I drive a minivan, I don't get a shower in as often as I would like to, I don't have a wardrobe that majors in purchases from Talbot's, and the people I see most often outside family are the clerks at the grocery store and Wal-Mart. Seriously. I'm on a first-name basis with the clerks.

Another "not me!" item was that I didn't see myself attending MOPS. MOPS made me think of, well, mops. Women managing to take an hour off drudgery, so desperate to get out of the house that they would pay people to take their kids, yet still be wearing knit drawstring pants and no make-up. Now that I'm a mom, I understand paying people to take your kids for a little while, and as I type I'm wearing knit drawstring pants and no make-up. Budgeting money is important, but not as important to a mom as budgeting her time and energy. If I know a day's schedule is hectic, then I want a few other things (like make-up and photo-ready outfits) off my to-do list.

SO... at the MOPS meeting I attended today our speaker compared lives to apples: if there is rot at the core, it impacts the seeds that are planted later. In order to plant healthy seeds, I need to identify areas of decay or rot in my defaults and behaviors. This idea, though new in form, was not a new concept for me. The side note that falls into what Mac would call a "beam-knocker" (like when you whack your head resoundingly against an overhead beam) was this: if there's a girl friend I admire (and even resent a bit) for doing something well, I could ask for her help or suggestions instead of comparing myself to her and feeling depressed about my assumed failures.

I've thought of this where the church (as in, body of believers, not just one building) is concerned, and I'm comfortable knowing that hospitality is not something that comes naturally to me. I'd never thought of if where being a mom or wife was concerned. Case in point? I have a girlfriend whose house always seems to be freshly decorated and neat as a pin. There are many things I do well, but housecleaning is not my forte. Our house is presentable, but it's very obvious someone lives here -- lives here with a large, black dog, as a matter of fact. Rather than mentally smacking myself because I haven't vacuumed in over a week or only just got around to changing bed sheets (sheets taken from the basket of laundry that's been sitting in the living room for a week) -- I am better off recognizing that there are probably things my girl friend wishes she did better, even (dare I say it?) that she did as well as I do.

This morning had a relieving measure of grace added to my shoulders. Because of it, it's OK with me that the laundry is still sitting in the living room. --All right, it's almost OK with me, but I'm working on it!

Language as Portmanteau

In the midst of several gray, rainy days, I've been reading more than usual. My tastes have been more sober of late: back issues of American Heritage, a bit of Seamus Heaney poetry, listening to an interview with Columm McCann -- all material that places a high value on language.

Portmanteau words are those that combine more than one word to encompass a new meaning. 'Brunch', 'smog', and even 'Tanzania' are portmanteau words that exist because someone somewhere decided to combine words and capture both meanings in one (smoke + fog = smog, for instance). How is it that all language itself is not considered a cultural portmanteau? It truly is a marvel that a concept can move from one mind to another through nothing more than a selection of sounds. I admire those who are able to use language correctly, but my deepest respect is for those who see language as a creative medium of its own.

Madeleine L'Engle, Mark Twain, Emily Dickinson, Emma Lazarus, Francis Thompson, and scores of others know how to stow emotion and evoke memory with the words they choose. They do not write: they paint for the ear and the thought. In Wilder's play, "Our Town," the narrator tells Emily that sometimes the poets and great artists are aware of the greatness of life as they're living it. Columm McCann and even Brett Butler (which might surprise you) carry a flavor and rhythm in their words that strikes me internally and makes something within ring, like the resonance of a great bell that you feel as well as hear. I carry the notes of their phrases long after I've turned the page. Time, for that moment, slows and I am lost in savoring. "I fled him down the labyrinthine years... and shot precipitated adown titanic glooms of chasmed fears" -- don't just see these words, HEAR them in your head, the staccato and rubato of syllables that play their own sort of music.

If walking through a Barnes & Noble is any indication, almost anyone with any degree (or lack) of ability can be published. Far fewer of those published can paint with words. I am convinced that any writer worth their salt can list off a ream of writers they themselves read, savor and are inspired by. Writers are interesting for what they write, but more interesting for what they read. For those authors you admire, find out who THEY admire--see some of their story source for yourself. In seeing what inspired a favorite book, you can marvel anew at how uniquely someone was inspired by the vulnerable act of committing passion to the page.

In trying to find your own list of syllabic artists, here are some I treasure: Maya Angelou, Davis Bunn, Josephine Tey, Jasper Fforde, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Rudyard Kipling, Frances Mayes and Emmuska Orczy

The Power of the Internet

When television came on the scene, there were many who decried the time it would take from family and other such negatives. Fred Rogers was one of those who saw its potential. He spoke passionately about the possibilities for using television to reach many and educate them.


Society has a love/hate relationship with the media. We resent its intrusive, gossip-mongering aspects but rely on the information we get from it. The internet in particular has begun to impact daily life. Never before could people on opposite sides of the globe receive information seconds after it happened. This possibility (like television) is a two-sided sword. We all have seen negative aspects: misleading information and rumor that (in Chesterton's memorable phrase) goes 'round the world before the truth puts on its boots. It's harder to see the phenomenal possibilities of the internet bear fruit.


Then I read an article with a beautiful example.


Two male fans started a web site last January in hopes of getting a hug from Taylor Swift. She learned about it in March, and she issued some challenges to the two guys. Rather than ask for displays of slavish affection, she asked them to do good deeds (helping a little old lady across the street as the first one). The two collegiates responded with a video montage of them (and many others from around the world) helping people across the street as a result of Taylor's request. She challenged them to do some creative deeds involving the number thirteen (her lucky number). They responded on April 13 with a video of deeds like giving 13 roses to the woman they helped across the street, submitting 13 items each to a food pantry, picking up trash on 13th street, paying for $13 of gas for a stranger, and helping a small boy meet his favorite Auburn baseball player (who wears jersey #13). Two days ago Taylor Swift showed up at a karaoke session the guys were having in an auditorium on Auburn's campus to give each of the guys a hug--and gave each a kiss on the cheek plus a front-row ticket to one of her concerts. She capped it off by giving a short impromptu concert with the help of her band, who had come along with her.


Although I appreciate the kindness, integrity and positive character shown, what riveted me was the seized positive impact the internet had. Two friends had a wish, and out of that wish a number of people (many of them strangers to each other, since the guys requested viewers to submit videos of their own) were inspired to impact the world in many positive ways, without any expectation of reward or reimbursement other than a hug.


I marvel at the difference in generations, and the mobilization potential of the millennial generation (those born in early 1980s to early 2000s). They are not fazed by odds against outstanding success, and they intuitively grasp the power inherent in large groups of people. If only there were a consistent method of motivating the masses to such heights on a regular basis!

Repetition

There are parts of being a mom that are delightful. I love hearing the random questions: "Mommy, do you like street hustling?" I love seeing the new lessons they learn about the world around them: books will not stick to the wall like magnets do to the fridge. I love experiencing the language development and translating their attempts: bah-bah means "bottle", a hand waggled side to side means "ball", etc. I love the hugs, the unself-conscious dancing to music, the unapologetic perspectives, and the full-bore enjoyment of living.

It's all of the repetitive tasks that drain me. Getting breakfast once (or even twice) is fun. Making it every morning for three people is not. By the time supper rolls around, I loathe the prospect of making any more decisions: what will we eat? What nutrients have we been lacking lately? Who will eat or can eat what I have in the house? Do I have time to make X or should I go with Y? Will it make enough for leftovers? Do I start before nap time ends, or do I wait and hope they'll play and keep each other occupied? Do I need to make a run to the store before supper (please, please, please let this be "no")? Do I aim for the family to eat all together, or do I plan on the kids eating before their dad gets home so they have time to play before bedtime?

Children do not add difficulty and confusion to daily tasks; they multiply it, and multiply it on an exponential scale. Doing laundry with a toddler's "help" adds physical obstacles, interrupting questions, instruction for how they might help, un-doing of incorrectly-done "help", increased restraint in the midst of rising frustration and impatience, and a greater supply of determination to see the task through to the end. My creativity gives out after finding five different ways to say, "Please bring the toy to me." My ears are tired after hearing some rendition of, "Mommy, is that a ____?" for the twelfth time. My patience gives out after a boundary is drawn and reinforced four times in as many minutes.

Motherhood often means needing space away from your kids, but being worried about what havoc they might create in your absence. Sometimes the child can be isolated (stuck in a crib, closeted in their room with toys and a closed door) and sometimes the mom needs to be isolated (locking herself in the bathroom or out in the car, for instance). Days immediately after a vacation or a visit from grandparents or a sleepover w/ a friend will always be more draining.

The number of times you will be interrupted are proportional to the importance of the task and inversely proportional to the available timeline. --And speaking of timelines, I should peel my child away from the computer and get him some lunch (more decision-making!). It's already 2 o'clock.

On Writing

I've kept a journal since grade school. If ever I want to know who I was then, I can dip back into words that the 13-yr-old wrote and be her and my present self in the same moment. Words can be a time machine.

My memories are strongly rooted in physical sensations: sight, sound, smell, feel and taste. When I record the sensations, the memories spring up of their own accord. Just the words 'Jovan musk' conjure up a hug from my grandmother. Words can recreate experience and make the dead live again.

Find the right word can be a struggle. "The difference between the right word and its second cousin," said Mark Twain, "is the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug." It can physically hurt to find that right word. Sometimes a word is used to hold the place until you find the right word, but any writer can tell you which words fit their vision exactly and which ones still bother them. Words can be as finicky as finding the exact shade of oil for a portrait.

Words and language are a gift. No other method in our world allows one person to describe an idea, no matter how esoteric and ephemeral, to a person centuries later. The writer will never know the reader; the reader will never see the writer. Only the words exist -- and in all likelihood, the writer will never know that those particular words are what changed the reader's life for all time.

The realization of these things could effectively stifle any perfectionist from ever putting text to page. Who can live up to that sort of burden and expectation? Writers can write for the market, to sell copy and make money. Writers can write for the public, to stroke pleasurable spots and affirm people where they are. Writers can also write for the most difficult audience of all: their own muse, their passions.

I write to fill an ache, a question inside me that seeks an answer. When I see a lack in my life or lives around me, I try to meet some of that need with words. To solve a problem, any good diagnostician knows that correct identification of the problem is necessary.

For now, life is busy. Chores must be done and meals must be made. Parenting requires a lot of hands-on discipline and damage control. Sometimes words simmer inside until they escape in a rush, inarticulate in their need to be said or written. Sometimes I procrastinate because I don't have anything to say that feels necessary. As my mom used to say, "If you can't say something in seven words, for heaven's sake don't say it in fifteen." Obfuscation and wordiness are not writing.

In words of one syllable: I have not been good at word craft as a job. I am not -- I must go. The word smith must give way to the mom. Once more.

Tired

Moms often get through a day, look at the list of things they intended to do (perhaps were even looking forward to doing, though cleaning my floors just doesn't do it for me), and wonder how on earth they could be so tired. Today? Today I already know why I'm tired.

1-Woke up and left bed ~7:50 a.m., almost an hour later than usual

2-Changed diaper and got milk for the 16 mo. old, who is teething (and not happy about it)

3-Got kids (and self) dressed, which necessitated digging through some laundry baskets & the dryer

4-Got breakfast for kids and self, the fed 16 mo. old and self

5-Let dog outside

6-Assemble needed paraphanalia for MOPS meeting this morning

7-Load kids into the car

8-Let the dog back inside, then closed him in the laundry room (thanks to his muddy paws)

9-Load tub of items into the back of the van

10-Drive to the next town for the meeting

11-Drop kids off at their respective places for childcare during the meeting

12-Return to van and retrieve my books and materials (in the rain)

13-Race to meeting room

14-Return to the rain outside to get tub of cloth diapers from another mom, then place the tub in our van

15-Meeting time (eat, watch video, dismiss for discussion time)

16-Lead/facilitate discussion

17-Hear familiar crying across the hall, and go to investigate--yes, it's my child.

18-Realize it's close to time to leave, so change child's diaper, pack up 16 mo. old's things, and return to meeting room

19-Explain that I need to leave early and arrange for my materials to be gathered together so I can get them some other time

20-Pick up second child from care site

21-Load children into the van

22-Running late, race home in ~10 minutes to pick up the dog

23-Load the dog into the van

24-Take the dog to his grooming appointment, 10 minutes late (just a bath, but most necessary!)

25-Return home to pick up parents' tool that we borrowed

26-Go to parents' house to return tool

27-Drive to store to pick up groceries

28-Return home to unload groceries
[aside from coming into the store itself, yes, the kids have been in the van since #21]

29-Return to groomer's to retrieve dog

30-Return home to unload dog, children, and various things from the morning

31-Put away groceries, feed kids lunch, unload dishwasher, put away dishes and reload dishwasher

32-Sit down and (gasp!) eat lunch myself

I may not have gotten things done on my mental list (fold laundry, put away clean clothes, organize/file paperwork, clean the floors, clean up toys, shower, work on afghan, put tub of scrap-booking supplies away), but I'll extend grace.

Today, I know why I'm tired and my to-do list is undone.

Writer's Blockheadedness

Writing.
I love language, and somewhere around freshman year I had a teacher ask to submit a writing piece to a lit magazine. I took a lit course as an extracurricular in college and got reamed for my writing style; such is the result of getting reamed earlier in college for being 'too literary' on engineering lab reports, I suppose.

What I'm trying to say is that I don't ever remember dreaming of being an author. It's only as I've been writing and submitting a piece here and there that I look back over my shoulder and see earlier things scattered along the path that led me here: the book I wrote that took me to a Young Authors convention; the poems I wrote for sports seasons, family birthdays, and just because. The persistent (though sporadic) journal entries. I think I have writings/journal entries for every year going back 20+ years.

In spite of writing being a long-standing way in which I express myself, I often dread it. Sitting at a keyboard means facing down internal daemons.

"Just look at how long it's been since you wrote anything of importance."
"Why do you keep putting this off when others have told you this is a gift?"
"What kind of a writer are you, that you can't even sit down for 10 minutes a day to write about your kids and keep regular updates in a file for them?"

When I do sit down, I can type in stream-of-consciousness (like now), and it feels like a release of pressure. Whether I write a publishable piece or not, framing my thoughts/struggles on the page has always helped me. When it comes to making words say what I want them to, though, they become unwieldy and my lexicon is suddenly insufficient.

Communication has the possibility of telling someone what you're thinking, but also how you feel about what you're thinking and perhaps a shade of how others have felt about your thoughts. I'm all for denotation (the technical definition of a word), but it's connotation (the social perception and mood surrounding a particular word) that drives me. 'Dark' and 'inky' could be interchangeable, but the latter sounds and feels more image-oriented and poetic. A person can lecture or berate someone about a poor choice, but a berating implies more scorn and contempt. It is possible to paint with words; their colors just aren't visual.

I think most, if not all, writers have a vision of what a finished piece could say; most, if not all, will feel deflated after finishing something because it falls short of that vision. Sometimes by rewriting, sometimes by editing, that vision is reached, but rarely.

I promised God several years ago that if I got a solicitation for a written piece, I would submit at least one writing to it. I have not succeeded in keeping that promise, since I didn't write or submit a piece for this last request. Now I have another request from the same individual; the deadline is May, but the earlier I submit, the better. I think I know of something I could write, but words cannot express how I dread facing a blank page to start writing it out. Once written, I'll have to leave it alone for at least a week or two before I attempt editing. I rarely like anything I've written right after I write it. It seems to take somewhere around 2 years before I can read a writing and not feel like I dropped the ball somewhere.

So... I'm off to spend some time with my journal, then hopefully to shower. The writing piece will hang over my head for a while longer, I think.

Nothings

Any time I sit down to write anything (particularly if I know it will be seen by others), I rack my brain for thought-provoking, witty, or hilarious things to write or ways to write uninteresting topics. I'm a ham. Have been my whole life.
    Tonight, all I can think of is how mundane my life suddenly seems. --Not bad, you understand, just mundane. The topics that come easily to mind concern my kids, complaints about something in society, or my latest addiction (whatever that is).
    Tonight I don't feel like I'm capable of being entertaining or thought-provoking. Writing a blog, by its very nature, is self-centered. It assumes that 1-I'm worth writing about regularly, and 2-Others want to read that writing.
    I'm usually an open book. I don't cringe away from telling much about myself; getting married has meant re-evaluating that for DH's sake. Some things should remain private, after all! I'm now hampered with the voice in my head that recites a continual litany of how ineffective I am in anything I do (I'm pretty sure other people have these voices, too, but if you don't just smile and nod along) and the lack of anything meaningful to write about. [Note: One of my great-grandfathers would have a problem with the preposition end to that sentence, but I'll leave it--it's in recognition of my inescapable imperfection and brokenness. The poor man would probably die of a stroke -- if he wasn't already dead -- if he saw the deteriorated forms of grammar used for texting.]
    For now... I'll head downstairs and play some more video games. If it's Little Big Planet, I get to make a sack person jump over electrified rods (or onto them, if I'm suicidal); if it's Burnout, I get prizes for running other cars off the road. Right now either sounds kind of fun. : )

Attn: Snow Plow Driver

To the driver of the municipal snow plow that drove past our house this morning:

I understand you have a job to do. When my 4-yr-old and I went out to shovel snow off the driveway, I was already dreading the pile of snow and ice chunks that had accumulated at the end of the driveway from your prior visits. 20 minutes into the job (and after being hit by snow wildly thrown by the 4-yr-old and said 4-yr-old's shovel), you drove past--and deposited the first round of snow under my nose.

My shoulders slumped and I gazed in frustration after you, but I tried to cheer myself with the thought that it could have been so much worse, and after all, you had a job to do, too. You didn't know I have no snow blower, my husband's out of town, or that I have only 2-3 times in a day I even have the possibility of shoveling: morning nap, afternoon naps, or after offspring bedtime. I can't get to the grocery store until I shovel without risking getting stranded in our own driveway. I tried to apply grace.

When you passed the 2nd time--closer to our driveway, of course--and deposited another 6" of ice clods at my feet, the only thing that kept me from making obscene gestures or yelling profane things your direction was the presence of that 4-yr-old.

An hour after all this, and I'm still wondering if I could contact the city and reason with them.
"Dear City of _________:
   "While I appreciate your efforts to keep our town streets clear of winter precipitation, I view my resulting increased workload with increasing displeasure. Please know that you are capable of rendering single parents housebound because of your actions.
"Sincerely, An Irked Citizen"

Hmph.

Big Numbers

Big numbers seem to be popping up a lot lately. One million, billion, trillion, even quadrillion. A lot of the words just sound like the childish term 'bajillion'. I don't have any more concept of a quadrillion than I do a jillion or a bajillion.

The one thing that has helped was a time comparison.

One million seconds ago? That's 12 days ago.
One billion seconds? More than 31 years ago.
One trillion seconds? More than 32,000 years ago. Uh-huh. That's 30,000 B.C. or earlier.
One quadrillion seconds? 32.8 million years ago.

I can't casually read articles about the national debt ceiling being raised by another 1.9 trillion. I keep seeing it as 32,000 years' worth of seconds.

Please excuse me while I go contemplate the fewer than 1.122 billion seconds I've been alive. At a penny a second, I'd already be a multi-millionaire. Oy.

In the last 24 hours I've:
-- cleaned offal from the bathroom floor (the 4yo didn't get on the toilet fast enough)
-- said good-bye to my DH, who will be gone until Saturday or Sunday
-- located sundry screws and nuts for a toy construction set before the 14mo could think to swallow them
-- thought of, procured and prepared nine meals
-- fed two kids a sit-down supper, bathed them, and got them to bed in an hour and a half
--finally completed the castle level on the islands in Little Big Planet

None of it was easy, all of it involved some effort, but (sadly enough) the last one took the most time and caused the most frustration!

Maybe I should play more video games so parenting seems easier.

Little Big Problem

I'm ready to sack out. It's been a draining day, and there's an annoyingly repetitive song that's stuck in my head. I can't even blame my kids. It's really DH's fault. If he didn't have a certain person as a friend, we never would have thought of purchasing his older PS3 around Christmas-time. No PS3, no Little Big Planet. No Little Big Planet, no problem.

There are sack people you control in this video game to run through various worlds, collecting bubbles (I'm suddenly struck by the irony of collecting bubbles while I seclude myself in a video game bubble world) and prizes. A TV character once remarked that she never knew hell would be catered. Well, I never thought it would have a soundtrack.

It does.

The song is what plays during the Metropolis world on the Construction Site level. And I, silly shmuck that I am, find it difficult to walk away from something and leave it unfinished. -I'm fine with turning off the game while there are levels and worlds still to conquer; but if I took some aspect of a level personally and keep getting killed at one particular point, you better believe I'll play it until I figure out how to pass the obstacle.

Hmph.

Don't mind me. I'm just the one secluded in the cave of the basement until I get just one... last... bubble!

Argh.

I died.

Guess I'll have to give it another try.

Parenting Insider Knowledge

Every new endeavor has its own batch of unknowns, "gotcha" bits of information that only the group members know. Parenting, it seems, has a whole host of these things.

All these have become part of my compendium of parenting insider knowledge:

- If pregnant and ill, expect suggestions of ginger root, B vitamins, peppermint tea, prescription drugs, and perfected diet plans. If they work for you, great, but focus on finding what works for you--I would recommend standing over the sink instead of the toilet: less kneeling/rising and potential use of the garbage disposal to boot!
- If nursing, you will not regret purchasing a breast pump. Period.
- With each kid you will be paranoid you'll screw this one up and They will revoke your parenting license. Every child takes time to know, and as the parent, you'll know them best the soonest. Give yourself grace and time to get to know them. Having a person inside your body for 9 months does not (unfortunately) give you immediate and complete knowledge.
- Buy multiples of the kid's special blanket/toy/security item. If you only have one, it will quickly become filthy (you'll never get it away long enough to wash it) and losing it is a catastrophe in the making.
- Even if the child is no longer napping, having them spend 30-60 minutes in "alone time" (not punishment; play time by themselves) during the day can be a sanity-saver for you and teach them the valuable skill of being able to amuse themselves.
- Potty training happens when it happens. If the kid is 18 mo and ready, great; if (s)he is 4 and only just starting to be interested, push off the perceived disapproval and go with the kid's timetable. After upwards of five attempts over the course of a year and a half that didn't work (with a LOT of accompanying frustration), it finally happened.
- Used clothing places are great places to find clothing items for kids, who always outgrow things quickly. I highly recommend using Resale Shopping as a starting point.
- Caveat to the above: it is unlikely in the extreme that you will find used clothing (pants in particular) for preschool and elementary school-age boys. They're hard enough on their clothing that it doesn't survive more than one kid. Either make it yourself (and make it to last) or buy several cheap items that you know will wear out.
- Teaching your kids that next developmental step is a two-edged sword. If they know how to walk before 12 months, you'll be chasing them a lot longer. If they know how to read, it's that much earlier you have to be sneaky about what you're reading/writing/consuming in hopes they won't recognize the label.

*Blink*blink*

Wow. Getting on to a year and half, and I'm writing a new post.

Finally.

-In my defense, we only just (as in this morning) got internet connectivity at home. Yes, we've chosen the dark side until now. They had cookies. I like cookies.

Anyway, I've wasted almost no time in reconnecting via blog.

Life now is... chaotic. DH was on the road M-F for October, November, much of December and half of January. He's been at home (at night; he does still work during the day) the last two weeks. Until he came home, it was all I could do to survive the solo parenting of a 4yo and a 14mo. The 4yo is very talkative (and tech-inclined, meaning he likes buttons) and the 14mo is my doppelganger [sidenote: how is one supposed to put in umlauts on a blog?]. The 14mo scares me. I haven't finished a book since she started walking--I kid you not. Before then, I could still read 3-5 books a week. A week.

I'm also up to my ears in genealogy shtuff. Geeked out on Ancestry.com and delving into Ontario censuses from 1871 and such. Great fun, very time-consuming and prone to activate my addictive proclivities. "Yes, yes, I know the kids haven't eaten today and it's 5:30 p.m., but I just found a 12th cousin!"

Speaking of kids, it's approaching lunchtime. I should make sure we're actually dressed to meet the day--or what's left of it. I'm sure I'll be back later (and sooner than my last 'later').

I thought I'd emerge from this pregnancy unscathed, cold-wise, but Trent brought one home with him last week and I picked it up from him. Hence, several days of severe congestion, nose-blowing (we should buy stock in Kleenex) and general yuckiness. Now I'm in the "hacking so hard I might bring up a lung" phase.

There's an added aspect of advanced pregnancy when it comes to coughing during a cold. The abdominal muscles are already under some strain; my dad explained it by telling me to picture a paper towel tube with a hole cut out of one side to illustrate what happens with pregnancy. The growing uterus pushes abdominal muscles to the sides that usually run the full width of the abdomen.

Now imagine coughing like that. Fun, eh? I usually end up holding my stomach at some point in the process just because it aches more than coughing usually does.

-On a brighter note, I have an end date in sight! The c-section is scheduled for 8 a.m. on November 6th, so I know that by noon on that day (assuming I don't go into labor or something before then) Trent & I will have our daughter in hand. YAY!!!!!!!!!

I can handle thinking of 48 days a whole heckuva lot easier than the ambiguity of sometime in early November. It's part of being a concrete-sequential sort of person. : )

Uncivil Impatience

I have a tremendous dearth of patience when I want something.

Right now my impatience is with the government--specifically, the U.S. Postal Service. I ordered two DVD series by Ken Burns (The Civil War, and his most recent about WWII) last week Thursday. Amazon told me they thought I'd have the two series by September 3.

They're still not here.

-As of last night, I couldn't even get updated tracking information about the package. All I knew was that the supplier had shipped them from Indiana on August 29th.

The last two days, I have waited with baited breath for the mailman, feeling the eager anticipation of, "Maybe today..." only to have the morning pass and 3rd party fliers occupy the space in my mailbox.

I read through Doris Goodwin Kearns' phenomenal book about Abraham Lincoln, Team of Rivals, and my brain has been cogitating on Civil War data... humming "Ashoken Farewell," the violin solo piece that is the theme of Burns' Civil War documentary... checking other Civil War books out from the library...

As if I didn't know already: I'm a geek.

I hope they come tomorrow. It'd be nice to have something to watch while I fold laundry. : )

Overheard

Conversation between Nathan and Grandma, in Grandma's sun room:

"I really like the sparkles, don't you, Nathan?"

"It's a SPARKLY!"

"That's right! -Actually, it's a Swarovski crystal. Can you say 'Swarovski'?"

"Yeah."



Not quite 3, and he already knows how to punt.

Breathe

Right now it is beyond my ability to obey the lyrics of Faith Hill's song, "Breathe".

There's something about a small child shoving all internal organs out of the way that kinda' hampers any and all other body systems from functioning normally. I know my gallbladder is crammed up into my rib cage with my lungs, so who knows where my poor diaphragm is these days.

I remember dissecting frogs in 8th grade science lab. My group happened to have a male frog, but other groups had females. At least a couple of those female frogs were pregnant--ovaries extremely pronounced, abdominal cavities packed full of eggs, all other organs crammed into any available space... It made it difficult to find, let alone identify, which formaldehyde-soaked bit was a stomach, which were kidneys, etc. There are days of late that have me feeling like one of those pregnant frogs--without the formaldehyde, I hasten to add.

Abdominal discomfort sliding into pain is pretty standard these days. The uncertainty comes in trying to pin down the what or why of the discomfort. Have I not eaten recently enough? Did I not eat enough? Did I eat the wrong thing? (Greasy foods are guaranteed to make the next day a miserable one.) Did I eat too much? Am I lacking sleep? (This answer is almost always "yes".) Would a different position of sitting/standing/lying down help at all? (This answer is often "no".)

There is a picture I have of me holding Nathan in my hospital room within a day after he was born. Just looking at the picture conjures up the detailed memories: the soft weight of him draped against my shoulder, the heart-full knowledge of being able to cradle my son as closely as I wanted to after nine months of being kept at a distance, and the expression on my face... I can't think of a way to describe it except as feeling like I finally came home. All of me, every cell and fiber, was fully present in that moment, not wanting to be anywhere but where I was.

I know that there are future moments like that ahead of me with our baby girl; I know that the nine months' discomfort fades into acceptable memory.

It's just the present that's hard.

The last trimester of pregnancy is one of those times of life when most (if not all) women will fail to feel attractive--enough so that being complimented on how cute I look causes me to look closely at the person to see if they're in possession of their mental faculties. Elephants are not "cute". Whales ought never be described as "cute". I consider it a measure of my parents' training that I'm usually able to stretch a smile on my lips and bite my tongue from saying strongly negative things about the complimenter's eyesight. Despite being pregnant, I have retained my civility--most of the time. : )

IV Adventures

Not a whole lot of time to post--I just prevented Nathan from unloading the entire bin of plastic food here at Grandma's because "I'm almost done, and then we'll need to clean up so we can go bye-bye."

I think the crash I just heard from the vicinity of the living room had the unmistakable sound of lots of toys (be it food or toy kitchen pans, etc.) cascading onto the floor... It amazes me how finely-tuned one's hearing can become as a result of motherhood.

Anyway... I wanted to share this weekend's frustration. Sunday morning began with abdominal pain when I woke up, and it only increased over the next several hours. The three of us traipsed into the urgent care clinic so I could be poked and prodded. The gallstones I have were giving me problems. Since the pain continued and I didn't have the energy to care for Nathan on my own, I was admitted to the hospital and stayed overnight Sunday night in order to talk with the surgeon the following day. Silly me: I took only one book with me, which I (of course) finished Sunday night. All day Monday I felt extremely bored. TV... sleep... wander the halls (because of course I didn't sleep well on Sunday night due to restless legs syndrome kicking in)... feel frustrated with the hassles of having an IV in my left arm. By the time I talked with the surgeon around 4, I either wanted to head into surgery to have my gallbladder taken out or just go home. Argh.

On the humor front, I managed to create some problems for myself, even alone in the hospital. I went to get ready for bed Sunday night, casually assured the nurse that I would be fine and didn't need help, and started to undress.

Only after I started removing my top did it occur to me: the IV in my left arm would effectively prevent me from removing anything on top.

I ran down my list of options:
1- Sleep in the clothes I'd worn all day
2- Remove clothing as best I could and just let it hang on the IV line for the night
3- Try to detach the IV line from the machine myself so I could get undressed

If you know me, you can guess which option I chose! I examined the machine first, to see if it would be easier to detach the line there, but quickly decided just to unscrew the port from the line in my arm. No problem; it came off without any problem. I removed the necessary clothing, got ready for bed, went to reattach the IV line... and ran into my brick wall.

Trying to attach a bracelet one-handed is simplistic compared to trying to screw an IV line back onto a port inserted in your arm with just one hand. My shoulders slumped as I realized I would have to call a nurse in to "confess" what I had done.

Anna, the nurse, was gracious enough to laugh with me about my predicament once she came in and I explained what I'd done. She asked me what I do for a living; I told her I had a degree in biomed engineering, and she said, "Oh, so you must know how these machines work."

"Um, no..." I said, "I just lack all appropriate sense of fear when it comes to trying something new."

"Apparently you do; most patients are hesitant to do anything involving an IV machine!"

Well, I don't fall into that category. I'm more the sort whose husband tells her before leaving for the night that she isn't allowed to take a screwdriver and remove the back of the IV machine (which, I must say, is exactly what Trent did that night before leaving for home).

So... the moral of the story is that one should not attempt to attach (or insert, for that matter) IVs one-handed. Got it?

The really sad part in all of this is that I don't know if I'd choose differently if presented with the same choice today! God certainly does protect the stupid--I'm living proof!

Coming to Life

I finally have a reason for the nausea and general malaise that has plagued me throughout this pregnancy: an ultrasound revealed I have gallstones. How odd that such news would provide some relief... it's nice to have a reason for feeling so cruddy--even though there's nothing they'll do about it now. Usually they would remove the gallbladder, but they're understandably hesitant to perform any surgery that isn't absolutely necessary during pregnancy! I'll probably go in six weeks or so after our baby girl is delivered via c-section so they can remove my gallbladder using a laparoscopic procedure. The relief of at least knowing what's wrong means I can focus on other things, like dragging myself through the personal struggles of writing again! I received notice of another devotional collection that's soliciting manuscripts. My bargain with God is that I'll submit at least one piece for every solicitation that comes my way. There have been times I regret promising that. What is it about writing--about doing anything that is a true offering--that brings all negative internal criticism, every self-doubt you've ever had, and every negative memory of things not working out to the surface? I wrote one piece that fell short of the minimum length, then procrastinated for a month. Through force of will, I made myself finish the first piece and write a second one yesterday. I did some final polishing and sent them off just now--with a dreary voice in my head saying it's just a pointless exercise and I'm sure I'll receive a "thanks, but it didn't quite fit with what we wanted" in response. Argh. Why is it that something you're passionate about (language, writing, expressing thought and emotion) can become something you face with intense dread?

If you'll permit me some shameless self-promotion, at least I know I've been published twice already! Yay... Maybe there's more somewhere in the future.

More Surrender

My internet access is now sporadic at best (witness the near year between posts), but reading a friend's blog lit the desire to write a bit again.

Baby #2 is on the way--I'm 27 weeks, due November 12th. This pregnancy was difficult verging on impossible in the first trimester, but things were helped a couple weeks ago by learning that I apparently have gallstones. I no longer feel bad about feeling bad. Even people who aren't pregnant would agree that gallstones can leave you feeling miserable.

For now, I'm in the stage of, "I just want to feel like me again." I know my body will continue to resemble a stranger's and show me (yet again) that I cannot predict what it will do; I'd settle for feeling like myself a bit internally--energy-wise, attitude-wise, something me-wise.

It's easy as a stay-at-home mom to feel like you exist as nothing more than a response to the lives around you: take care of laundry, meals, daily discipline, cleaning, pet care and a motley host of other tasks. Somewhere in the midst of the melee, it's harder to care for yourself. I accept that, but what's harder is sometimes not even knowing what my dreams or fears are anymore. Dreams and fears for your family edge their way in until it's easy to discount yourself as a valued person with a unique worth in God's eyes--just as valued as any of your family members.

I guess it's another opportunity to think of the verse that talks about Christ "entrusting himself to the one who judges justly"--I need to trust that even when I forget who I am, God has not. He'll remind me when the time is right. Surrendering means confronting the fear that you'll never get back what was surrendered, after all.

John MacDonald on Writing

I am indebted to John MacDonald for his following introduction to Stephen King's collection of short stories entitled, Night Shift. As MacDonald himself writes of Stephen King, "I am entitled to hate him a little bit for this"; I wish I had written these words myself. Bless the man for finding words to many of writers' struggles and insecurities and frustrations when those battles are brushed off as being an easy way to make a living. Grrr.

"I am often given the big smiling handshake at parties (which I avoid attending whever possible) by someone who then, with an air of gleeful conspiracy, will say, 'You know, I've always wanted to write.'

I used to try to be polite.

These days I reply with the same jubilant excitement, 'You know, I've always wanted to be a brain surgeon.'

They look puzzled. It doesn't matter. There are a lot of puzzled people wandering around lately.

If you want to write, you write.

The only way to learn to write is by writing. And that would not be a useful approach to brain surgery.

Stephen King always wanted to write and he writes.

So he wrote Carrie and 'Salem's Lot and The Shining, and the good short stories you can read in this book, and a stupendous number of other stories and books and fragments and poems and essays and other unclassifiable things, most of them too wrteched to ever publish.

Because that is the way it is done.

Because there is no other way to do it. Not one other way.

Compulsive diligence is almost enough. But not quite. You have to have a taste for words. Gluttony. You have to want to roll in them. You have to read millions of them written by other people.

You read everything with grinding envy or a weary contempt.

You save the most contempt for the people who conceal ineptitude with long words, Germanic sentence structure, obtrusive symbols, and no sense of story, pace, or character.

Then you have to start knowing yourself so well that you begin to know other people. A piece of us is in every person we can ever meet.

Okay, then. Stupendous diligence, plus word-love, plus empathy, and out of that can come, painfully, some objectivity.

Never total objectivity.

At this frangible moment in time I am typing these words on my blue machine, seven lines down from the top of my page two of this introduction, knowing clearly the flavor and meaning I am hunting for, but not at all certain I am getting it.

Having been around twice as long as Stephen King, I have a little more objectivity about my work than he has about his.

It comes so painfully and so slowly.

You send books out into the world and it is very hard to shuck them out of the spirit. They are tangled children, trying to make their way in spite of the handicaps you have imposed on them. I would give a pretty to get them all back home and take one last good swing at every one of them. Page by page. Digging and cleaning, brushing and furbishing. Tidying up.

Stephen King is a far, far better writer at thirty than I was at thirty, or at forty.

I am entitled to hate him a little bit for this.

And I think I know of a dozen demons hiding in the bushes where his path leads, and even if I had a way to warn him, it would do no good. He whips them or they whip him.

It is exactly that simple.

Are we all together so far?

Diligence, word-lust, empathy equal growing objectivity and then what?

Story. Story. Dammit, story!

Story is something happening to someone you have been led to care about. It can happen in any dimension--physical, mental, spiritual--and in combinations of those dimensions.

Without author intrusion.

Author intrusion is: 'My God, Mama, look how nice I'm writing!'

Another kind of intrusion is grotesquerie. Here is one of my favorite, culled from a Big Best Seller of yesteryear: 'His eyes slid down the front of her dress.'

Author intrusion is a phrase so inept the reader suddenly realizes he is reading, and he back out of the story. He is shocked back out of the story.

Another author intrusion is a mini-lecture embedded in the story. This is one of my most grievous failing.

An image can be neatly done, be unexpected, and not break the spell. In a story in this book called 'Trucks,' Stephen King is writing about a tense scene of waiting in a truck stop, describing the people: 'He was a salesman and he kept his display bag close to him, like a pet dog that had gone to sleep.

I find that neat.

In another story he demonstrates his good ear, the ring of exactness and truth he can give dialogue. A man and his wife are on a long trip. They are traveling a back road. She says: 'Yes, Burt, I know we're in Nebraska, Burt. But where the hell are we?' He says: 'You've got the road atlas. Look it up. Or can't you read?'

Nice. It looks so simple. Just like brain surgery. The knife has an edge. You hold it so. And cut.

Now at risk of being an iconoclast I will say that I do not give a diddly-whoop what Stephen King chooses as an area in which to write. The fact that he presently enjoys writing in the field of spooks and spells and slitherings in the cellar is to me the least important and useful fact about the man anyone can relate.

There are a lot of slitherings in here, and there is a maddened pressing machine that haunts me, as it will you, and there are enough persuasively evil children to fill Disney World on any Sunday in February, but the main thing is story.

In Trouble from Reading

My reading, once again, got me into trouble this morning.

I took Nathan to a nearby town to run some errands, and we stopped at their library. Nathan loves this stop due to the children's room complete with train table, crayons, stuffed animals, computer games, etc. Usually I can just walk him through the front door and he heads for the children's room like a carrier pigeon.

There were only a few things I wanted to look for, but (wonder of wonders) I got side-tracked by a historical fiction book about Helen of Troy. I stood by the shelf for 15-20 minutes before I finally came to my senses and remembered I was a mom with a toddler on the loose.

Nathan, thankfully, was still in the children's room. Unhappily, there was evidence that he hadn't been in the children's room the whole time: a couple aisles in the children's book section had 20+ books pulled out of the stacks and spread on the floor.

When Nathan came to see what I was doing on the floor (revisiting my ability to alphabetize books by authors' last names), I told him to sit next to me. Bad idea #2 - he immediately started wailing without giving any thought to the pervasive silence around him.

The books did get re-shelved (I hope I shelved them close enough to where they were supposed to be), Nathan's crying quit, and we got back out to our vehicle in one piece and (miraculously) no further crying.

-Now I must go. I just heard a sound from my parents' front room that had the unmistakable sound of a bin full of matchbox cars being emptied onto carpet. Amazing how your ability to distinguish sounds improves when you become a parent...

Service with a Smile

As Trent said this evening, no one tells you that having a child will provide you with an indentured servant--Nathan happily (nay, proudly) set hot pads, bread and utensils on the table for me, put the phone back in its cradle, then helped clear the table after dinner--brought me the salt and pepper, then put the hot pads and pot holders away in their drawer and closed the drawer. (This was with requests on my part, but still...)

I made a quick run to Wal-Mart for some yarn, and he carried one skein of it up to the counter for me, pushed it onto the counter, and then carried the bag of purchases out to the car for me.

It's pretty darn stinkin' cute to see a 2-yr-old trying to hoist a bag up high enough to keep it off the ground, making his slow way across the parking lot with the aforementioned bag banging into his knees.

He was so pleased with himself and seems to love the concept of "helping."

I wonder if I could somehow get him to scrub the floors...

Reading

Ah, the joy of books... I was warned while pregnant that I should read as much as I could before the baby was born, because I wouldn't have time to read after that.

Amateurs.

I have since come to believe that we find time for the things we want to do most. Is exercise your thing? You'll get up at 5 a.m. to go walking (and other people, myself among them, will consider you demented). Cooking? You'll somehow manage to juggle any insane schedule and still perform culinary experiments. For me, that priority is reading. I'm assisted in this pursuit by Nathan being relatively low maintenance. I can read in the living room and Nathan will play happily by himself for an hour or so. I can read when he naps (from 1:30/2 until 4:30 p.m.) and again after he goes to bed (7/7:30 p.m.).

Recent books I've been reading run the gamut from autobiography to fiction to mystery to spiritual growth stuff. I read Nicole Baart's first book that comes out in a few weeks and was happily surprised by quality fiction that happens to be written by a Christian; she's sacrificed no iota of craft for the sake of selling tripe. Since Nikki's a friend of mine, it was a huge relief to tell her honestly how much I loved the book and that I want to purchase a copy to have on my shelves for the quality of the writing all by itself. -Even better: I know how to get my hands on the sequel before it's released from the published, unlike having to wait another year as most of you commoners. Mua-ha-ha...


Next up - Ravi Zacharias' memoirs, Walking from East to West. I've seen this out for a while, just hadn't purchased it yet. I finally bought it and devoured it, journaling much, thinking even more, and feeling challenged on every page. Ravi's words, manner and very life present a call to me to be who God made me to be. Not a "better" Christian, a greater financial success, a "better" homemaker or any other area of my life; but fully surrendered in every area of my life. Highly, highly recommended.



Just for fun - Jasper Fforde's books--any of them. Literary references and light humor prevails, but for all the thought and original plot work in his fiction, every single one of them has been a treat to read from start to finish. Can't wait for the most recent Thursday Next book to come out in paperback so I can add it to my collection!


Aside from reading, I'll be honest--I've been battling. Shortly after Nathan was born, my mood did a fairly steep nosedive. I don't know if it was post-partum depression or not; doesn't that eventually go away? I went on anti-depressants during that first year, and I'm still on them. Anytime I go more than a few days without them, my thoughts spiral downward. It isn't that I have suicidal thoughts or anything like that; I just lack the energy to do anything--or even care that I'm not doing anything. My thoughts turn all circumstances into something that's my responsibility or my fault, and trying to turn off obsessive thought patterns exhausts me.


I hate being dependent on medication. My background is a can-do mentality, the whole "suck it up and get it done" attitude. If only I'd try harder, I could make myself get over this and not have to take meds. I mentioned this to my mom, and she responded, "That's right, and all those people with diabetes should just try a little harder and they wouldn't have insulin problems." Her point is valid. It's just that physical ailments seem so much more objective than a serotonin level deficit.

-For now, at least, I'm caught up on my meds and am able to function at normal levels. Hooray for the little things in life!

Night Owl

Here I am in the wee sma's, having succumbed to the temptation of web surfing, when I should be home sleeping. I need to be up and coherent enough to awaken, change, clothe and feed a toddler in order for his grandmother to pick him up at 8 a.m. Once he leaves, I get to assemble the four corners of the globe that comprise the Stanley household and pack it for a Labor Day trip to my in-laws' in Arkansas.

My anti-depressants have been out since Monday morning, and I'm starting to feel it, mood-wise. Emotional margins are getting worn thin--just seeing that a high school classmate's wife was the Iowa delegate for the Mrs. America pageant engendered the thought that I'll look extremely dumpy and Midwestern when our next class reunion rolls around.

Me. Home. Bed. Now.

Re-educating a Poseur

We had friends over for dinner last night. These are intelligent friends, academic friends, well-read friends, friends who can crack jokes about faux book titles written in the style of P.G. Wodehouse.

P.G. Wodehouse?

I consider myself an intelligent, well-read individual. I have never read any P.G. Wodehouse. I funk it (and quite badly, I might add) when I play the booklovers' edition of Trivial Pursuit. One would think I had never heard of a classic or read any book written since the mid-20th century.

Last night also brought me a new lesson about myself: in the company of intellectual friends, I turn into a poseur.

Much of my thought process revolved around frantically trying to think of erudite authors I could introduce into the conversation. I dropped more $5 words last night in casual conversation than I have in the preceding year. I think I was still myself, but I tried too hard to project myself beyond my humble Midwest surroundings. I didn't want a bland meat-n-potatoes meal that relied on salt as the sole seasoning, so I made pasta with a puttanesca sauce and a raspberry trifle. We drank white and red wine with the meal, had a long and intense conversation about wines, teas (full-leafed, if you please; no humble tea bags for us) and talked for several hours about topics ranging from the Greek scholarly interpretations of the gospel of John to incredible books (e.g. Norton Juster's The Phantom Tollbooth, Leif Enger's Peace Like a River) to any number of topics.

I enjoyed the time and talking immensely. My feeling of out-of-place-ness is that it feels so far away from who I am now. It wasn't until after we went to bed after midnight that I realized... I missed Nathan, who went to bed shortly after our friends arrived. He wouldn't have contributed anything to our conversation, but it was the first time in months (years?) that he wasn't any part of the conversation topics, either. So many of my friends these days are friends in life stages similar to my own.

Conversations with moms can be disconcerting: "I couldn't believe that this thought was articulated - No, we don't lick the dog back... I don't care if he licked you first - so beautifully in language - Because I said no! No licking - and leave his tongue alone while you're at it - that felt like it could have been my words. He put my thoughts on that page, and it was wonderful to read it." Schizophrenia seems like it is often peeking around the corner.

My life focus has changed as a mom. I had many people say I should enjoy reading before Nathan was born, because I'd never have time to read afterward. I saw friends unable to converse about anything other than safety studies, development stages or the latest toy recall and how their adorable Squizzle-bug was now in tears that a beloved whizz-gig had to be taken away.

For those without kids, be not afraid. I read just as much now as I ever did before Nathan was born. -He is a compliant child, but it's also that reading is that important to me. My husband and I still have deeply satisfying conversations about French cuisine, compare Russian authors, or discuss my feelings on Rosetta Stone's ability to teach Arabic effectively. We are still the same intellectual, multi-dimensional people we always were.

The difference for us now is that Nathan is as much a factor of life as Trent & I are. A trip to the grocery store is dependent on Nathan's naps, his eating schedule or other factors I cannot completely control.

Yes, it's a struggle to relinquish more control in my life. It's also been an immense blessing to have the excuse of my son to set aside tasks I once considered imperative (clean this, organize that, finish this, check the list entry off) to sit and watch. I never remembered until this week that there was a time in my life that I, too, was frustrated that I couldn't fit a large toy through a small hole. Sometime in my life I learned that magnets don't stick to wood and books don't stick to walls.

I only remember these things if I'm willing to set aside the busyness of my life to watch Nathan discover his. Watching Nathan learn about this world is helping me remember it, too. This year has been good in so many ways, yet I always hope the new year will prove to be even better.

Monday on a Sunday

This week my Monday came on a Sunday.

I fully intended to go to church this morning, but everything imaginable conspired to get me frustrated and distracted from hearing and learning anything.

After bathing & dressing Nathan, loading him and his stuff - and my stuff - in the car (already running late), I couldn't find my keys. I dug through my purse two or three times, then dashed back in the house to ransack every place I thought they might be. No keys.

In an interesting juggle, I moved the dog from the garage to the house (to prevent him running away) and opened the garage door so I could get out my bike and hook the Burley to it. I got it hooked up, the garage door closed, all our stuff transferred from car to Burley, inhaled the rest of my coffee, and took off for church.

On the way there, the safety flag fell off the Burley. When I turned around and got off my bike to retrieve the flag, the wind blew my bike over. I reattached the flag, righted my bike and calmed Nathan down, and (finally) got to church. When I got there, I realized Nathan's diaper needing changing before I dropped him off at nursery. Once I got the diaper changed, Nathan deposited at nursery, and grabbed my stuff for the service, I needed to hurry and write out the check for the offering. I had finished the check and was putting the checkbook back in my purse when - lo and behold: my keys. In my purse. The whole time.

I still don't know what all the distractions were supposed to distract me from. Maybe it was a time for me to see how much I've grown spiritually - I felt frustrated and even tired, but there wasn't any anger in any of this morning's activities for me. There wasn't a time in there where I felt almost hysterical that so many things were going wrong. My peace was ruffled, but not ruined.

Maybe it was so I could listen to a vision of the church as the body of Christ, each member serving and building each other up. I know what my spiritual gifts are; I've focused quite a while on using them and being a wise steward of them. Maybe this morning it was that I needed to hear that they aren't "my" spiritual gifts, but "ours." Maybe I needed to hear that I don't have the option of withholding them from being used in my community. My role is to offer what I have, even if I don't know where or how it will be used, believing that it is better to start dancing in my own way, singing my heart's song to God instead of waiting for the event to be organized and tickets to be sold and rehearsals held so that my dance, my song, can have a definite impact.

I've thought so often that, "Lord, I'm trying..." So much of my life has been a wrestling to quit trying to please or pacify God and instead respond to him. I rarely "try" to respond - I just respond.

First Birthday

Nathan's birthday was almost two weeks ago, but as you can tell from the pictures, a good time was had by all... especially the birthday boy!

Opening and playing with birthday presents...

Introduction to sugar, via cake and frosting...
Testing...

Why didn't someone tell me about this stuff before now?!

Garcon! More, s'il vous plait!

The Ecstasy

Despite the dog's help in licking chocolate frosting off some of Nathan's skin, the boy still needed two baths to clean him up for bed. Bath #1 in the utility sink in the laundry room to remove the chunks of cake and frosting; Bath #2 was in the bathtub with soap, etc. to get to that "clean baby" smell again. He left chocolate rings around both tubs.

As for us? We're trying to keep up with his increased walking, increased babbling, greater curiosity, and still keep pace with the other events in life. I'm involved in three semi-weekly activities plus the usual house/boy care that our family needs. Trent is works from 6 a.m. until 6 p.m. Monday through Saturday until the middle of next month; he's also trying to finish off the chain-link fence around our back yard, finish the trim in our bathroom, help with a scheduled Network seminar next month and (as of last night) replace our roof in his spare time. We thought we could wait to re-roof until next spring, but recent rainstorms gave us water spotting on several ceilings. Sometime in the next month we'll be reshingling.

Bright spot #1: Trent's dad is in the roofing business, so materials will be inexpensive for us.

Bright spot #2: We don't have shake shingles underneath the top layer of asphalt on this house - faster tear-off time.

Bright spot #3: We shouldn't have to replace all of the plywood sheeting under the shingles, unlike last time.

Bright spot #4: The pitch on this roof isn't nearly as bad as our last house; we can walk on it, rather than rapelling over the peak with ropes tied off to our front porch.

I'm trying to be upbeat, but this definitely wasn't anywhere on our radar for now.

-One last thought: I don't miss having the internet until I try to play catch up. Dealing with email and blogs and such in one shot is a long session! : )

Internet Deprivation

Egads... Four days after my last post, we moved the bulk of our belongings from storage into our house. Five days after that post, we spent the first night in our new home.

The following two weeks are a blur of cleaning, unpacking, organizing, arranging, decorating, flattening cardboard boxes and playing swap shop with my parents ("Here, these are yours..." "I found these in the bathroom you were using here and thought you might need them...").

One week after we moved out, my sister-in-law-to-be's parents arrived to stay with my parents prior to the last wedding of the Jongewaard kids. One week after that, Trent started a new job with another electrical company in town and relatives from both families from all corners of the globe arrived for the wedding itself. Having been warned ahead of time by my sister-in-law (not the one who just joined the family; the other one) that family members like to trek through the latest family property, I set that week as my goal for being completely unpacked.

As I said, it was a blur, but somehow I actually met the goal. -Ok, the basement is still pretty cluttered and messy, but still: no cardboard boxes left on the main floor. Considering our library of books is somewhere between 1200 and 1400 books now, that's a HUGE accomplishment!

We're still working on projects here and there. Tonight I touched up places in the laundry room and back hallway that got paint scraped off in the moving process; Trent's digging the post holes for the chain-link fence he's putting around our back yard.

Nathan's first birthday is this Friday, and it'll be a family dinner: eight adults and the three grandkids. I'm hoping to have the basement done before then (in the midst of meetings and making applesauce for the freezer and cleaning and caring for Nathan and...).

This post is meant to bring you up-to-date in a rush, but also as an apology. We don't currently have Internet access at our house, and don't know when we'll have it. My access to Blogger is entirely dependent on a trip back to my parents' (like now). I have no way of knowing how long it'll be between posts. My apologies, and I will try to keep up with email and this when I can.

Back to the basement!

Activities

Saturday, August 5th: 17 hours of tiling my first job - our new shower. Talk about a learning curve... I got home after midnight with my fingertips throbbing from all the thinset cement contact.

Sunday (6th): helped with set-up and take-down at church (8 a.m. to around noon), then hosted small group at night (5:30-8:30)

Monday (7th): up at 5, over to the house to mark lines for the faux finish painted stripes in the living room. Home by 6:30 a.m. to talk with Trent before he left for work, went through the morning routine with Nathan (up, change, feed, read, play, feed) and back to the house with Nathan and my mom. Nathan napped, I tiled and Mom taped in the living room. Home to do laundry, tried to cut the one remaining tile I needed cut, back to the house to paint a bit in the living room, home for supper and back to the house to continue tiling until just after 10.

Tuesday (8th): up to talk with Trent, morning routine with Nathan, then back over to the house to (finally) finish tiling. Cleared space in the living room for carpet to be delivered, then home to spend the afternoon with Nathan. Friends came over for supper, and Trent & I went to the house after supper to check over things and make lists for a (hopefully) last trip to Menards, etc.

Wednesday: During Nathan's morning nap, I'll be painting at our house; after Nathan's in bed at night, I'll be over at the house grouting the shower tile.

Thursday: carpet can be laid, and Trent & I drive 45 miles with Nathan to get things from Menards, etc.

Friday: carpet laying finished, items moved from my parents' front room and some of Nathan's room into our house.

Saturday: a crew of unknown size will be at our house at 8 a.m. to help us move all of our items from storage (where they've been since a year ago last May) into our new house.

I have no idea if I'll be able to find sheets for us to use to sleep at our house Saturday night or not. Why is it that no matter how much planning you try to do, everything lands at the last minute?

Last-Minute Renovating

This last week has been a slew of home renovation-related tasks, and I suspect it will continue to be this way up through the 16th of August. We need to move in to our house before the 17th/18th of August - as in, two weeks from tomorrow.

As of 11:00 this morning, no flooring material was permanently installed in any of the rooms, only the microwave/fumehood is installed of the sundry appliances destined for kitchen or laundry room, no furniture is anywhere in the vicinity of the house, and the garage is a confused labyrinth of cardboard boxes (some empty, some not) and torn-out counters and old housing paraphanalia.

Two. Weeks. From. Tomorrow.

This week? Two trips (~1 hr's drive each way) to Home Depot and/or Menard's for various supplies, vinyl flooring being laid in three of the rooms, ceiling fans and other electrical fixtures installed, furnace vents being cleaned of their foot-deep accumulation of dust, rooms being painted, plumbing hooked up, and (still to come this week) tile installed in the shower, new circuitry being run and laminate being laid in three more areas. Carpet, the last bit of painting and moving are all supposed to happen next week. -Oh, and my mom's helping me refinish the dining room set in the meantime. Plus figure out window treatments. Plus watch Nathan.

Did I mention that I'm the one who will be laying the tile in the shower? I volunteered in a moment of bravery that I might later regret. Neither Trent nor I have laid tile before, so we're starting at the same skill level. He's got so much to do and so few Saturdays to do it... This seemed like a big job I might be able to do instead of him. I've purchased my materials, read up on techniques and do's and don'ts, and have invited two girlfriends over for moral support on Saturday.

If you read a news story this weekend of a woman in the Midwest who tried to slit her wrists with a shard of tile, it might be me.

Killing Superwoman

From Rob Bell's book Velvet Elvis:

I meet so many people who have superwhatever rattling around in their head. They have this person they are convinced they are supposed to be, and their superwhatever is killing them. They have this image they picked up over the years of how they are supposed to look and act and work and play and talk, and it's like a voice that never stops shouting in their ear.

Bell goes on to say that they only way to avoid being killed by this superimage is to kill it first.

I realize this is true for me. However grisly and macabre it might sound:

Supermom, you who never let your child utter a second wail before you are crib-side with comforting words and an always adequate milk supply, who always sets aside any task from clipping toenails to disarming a nuclear bomb in order to play with your tot in mind-building activities - I place my determined hands firmly around your throat and happily, gleefully choke off all rivulets of air making their way to your lungs.

Superwife, you who can still wear every perfectly-mended item of clothing from your size-4 days in college, who looks alluring enough to draw other manly gazes yet never the slightest bit indecent, who answers sweetly to every request and never, ever, ever refuses to fill any perceived need of your husband's if it can be accomplished within the laws of physics, who knows intuitively when to speak and when to be quiet, who never manipulates to get her own way and lives only to serve others - I have a gorgeous hollow-head bullet with your name on it. I savor the clicks as I lock and load the gun, then pull the trigger without hesitation, aiming right between your eyes.

Superhomemaker, you who maintain a spotless domicile with glossy floors that never see more than a week between in-depth cleanings, who has perfectly matched furniture sets and costly, coordinated decorations in each room, who always stays within budget for groceries and makes even breakfast a well-balanced, home-cooked meal - I gladly entwine my fingers in your hair and embed my fingernails in your scalp as I push your perfect head under ice-cold water and hold you there until the bubbles stop coming to the surface.

My superimages have been killing me.

Afternoon Delight

With Nathan down for his afternoon nap, I thought I'd get on the stick about finally painting the rest of the dining room set I'm redoing.

Immersed in my task, I suddenly heard baby chortles over the baby monitor.

Funny... he was silent just a moment ago.

Silence again.

More baby chuckles.

-This continued for several minutes, until my curiosity was piqued. I trekked upstairs quietly, brush in hand, to see if it was a stuffed animal, ceiling fan or something else that had him so amused.

None of the above. He apparently had the hiccups and that sensation was what was making him laugh.

[Hiccup] baby belly giggle

I love those laughs.