nonsensical text

thankful

2008-11-27T22:30:00.000-05:00

Living,
Breathing,
Cackles,
Groans,
Rivalry,
“m-o-o-o-o-ms”

The fact that I can’t even finish a list of thanks because the act of appearing to do anything for myself immediately draws all children under the age of 13 (which is only three of them, but still).

The fact that I listed that as something for which I am thankful even though it often pulls me straight to the brink of sanity.

In everything, give thanks.

combined influences may be hazardous to your health

2008-10-17T11:15:00.001-04:00

Last Sunday, the pink one came home from church with a Noah’s Ark associated craft and various flashcards with different animals on them. Earlier this week, she could be found curled up against her father watching the closing few minutes of Rocky Balboa. On the surface, these two things might not be related, but be warned. Your five year old, when exposed to these influences may begin asking multitudinous questions about death and cemeteries. She also might be inclined to make up interesting flashcard games. What begins as a simple flashcard memory game might turn into the following musical:

Setting: The pig card stands before the assembled animal council near the entrance to the ark.

Pig: I came back because you missed me, missed me.

Other animals (chanting): Missed me, missed me, missed me….

Pig: I was sad because my mommy died.

Other animals: She died, she died.

Pig: But now I have a new mom, and she’s cool, and she’s a robot…a robot.

Other animals: Robot pig, robot pig…

I am sorry to say I missed the closing scenes as it was at this point that I had to quickly excuse myself from the room.

eighteen days

2008-10-07T23:48:00.002-04:00

Just eighteen days…

You came out kicking. It was the strangest sensation to feel you pushing your way out of me so fiercely after taking your sweet time working your way down the birth canal. You let me push for two hours before you got frustrated with me and took matters into your own hands (or feet as the case may be). You have always had that fiery independent streak (and the habit of ‘humoring’ me).

I have watched you grow – have been astounded by the beauty of your greatest strengths – have been saddened by the lingering nature of some of your greatest weaknesses. You certainly inherited the best and worst of both your father and me. I can’t decide which frustrates me more. But overall, I am so very proud of you.

In a moment, the gift God gave through His Son was made more tangible to me – the very moment of your arrival in the world.

Some of the subsequent days took eons to elapse - perhaps most notably those days filled with colic, temper tantrums, and natural investigative curiosity. But suddenly, I look back and you are no longer behind me or looking up to me as you hold my hand. You still hold my hand from time to time, but I look up to you as I struggle to keep up with your rapid pace. Suddenly you have a driver’s license, business cards, a college I.D., and a voter’s identification card. Suddenly you are about to be…

Eighteen.

raisin bread

2008-09-09T01:52:00.003-04:00

Gosh, it’s been awhile since I slept with bread. I wasn’t even sure I remembered how to do it until I reread the recipe over at Mary’s place. I guess it is a bit like riding a bicycle – it comes back to you as you go through the motions. Even so, those first few laps back on the bike are usually fraught with wobbles and uncertainty. I mustn’t expect too much of myself until the dust loosens from my joints.

Oh, desolations and consolations, where art thou?

So much stirs under the surface. My desolations would seem so small: My oldest started college classes this fall at the community college; he was accepted elsewhere, but chose this option as best suiting his schedule. The instigator is back to school in the real world. The remaining four are schooling at home. Yes, indeed, the pink one has begun the journey. All of these things add up to a multitude of small stresses and a return to morning person status (not my favorite rotation). My father is still in an assisted living facility, but things have been up and down in that regard due to administrative changes. In the current incarnation, he is feeling unsettled due to the return of an aide (who is not his “favoritist” person in the world), thus he has lately been requiring extra energy on the part of my sister and myself. My mother, love her as I do, lives alone and requires (daily) a sounding board for all of her tangents – usually during the school day.

Shriveled, the “me” cowers on the inside – taking less time than I should to pull my eyes away from me and onto God, away from me and onto my family, away from me and onto others. Yet ironically, I spend so much time focusing on me that I somehow manage to convince myself that I am spending no time on me at all. Like a grape in the sun, sustaining hydration seeps away. I am raisin.

There’s a funny thing about raisins, though – when properly stored, somehow they maintain their juiciness. The sweetness on the inside is compounded.

The environment I would store myself in would dry the raisin into nothing but a shrunken pebble. How great the consolation that my God knows a thing or two about hydration – a God who can even bring dry bones back to life. That knowledge might not always seep as far as my heart, but the conviction never falters in my mind. I do not presume it to be true; I know it more surely than I trust the earth’s rotation, the ebb and flow of tides, or even gravity.

Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us.
Romans 8:37, KJV

just for grins

2008-08-22T03:11:00.003-04:00

I don't know how long I will leave these up here, but I just thought you might want to get a look at the family. Mind you, this might not give you the clearest dose of reality....

P.S. Mary's mention of comments in the comments on the last post reminded me that I wanted to thank you guys for your comments. Did I say comments often enough in the last sentence? I plan a woe is me post about commentversation at some point in the future. Knowing me, it will likely make it to print in a year or so.

yeah, it was a long phone call, wasn't it?

2008-08-19T01:55:00.001-04:00

I don’t know how long it is possible to sit staring at a blank white document with blinking curser before being compelled to start babbling, even if the babble is about nothing.

I opened my blog and was assaulted yet again by the harsh reality of time – with nothing to show for it – padding by on toddler feet – rapid and aimless.

When I was in high school, I wrote rather depressing poetry – most of it bad – with astonishing regularity. People who read those lines often expressed their concern over my emotional well-being. I let them know they didn’t need to worry over the writing. When it flowed from me onto the page, it was a release valve of sorts. The pressure might have remained high, but it was not terminal because I was able to let some of it out. I told them they should probably worry far more if I wasn’t writing at all.

I have had some time to think on that response of mine in this, my long silence. Let me assure you right away that I am not so depressed as to be suicidal, but there are some connections to the silence and my state of mind.

I think that I haven’t written because I have been sad. I have been numb; I have been a little bit broken from time to time. But, I have no valid reasons to have remained in this mood for so long. All of my complaints are so trivial when compared to those of so many in this world – when compared to my own blessings. I don’t want to inflict them on other people – whining and moping about. Or is that really the truth? Wouldn’t it be more accurate to say that part of me does want to inflict that upon you but is afraid that no one would want to hear? Please don’t jump in with assurances that you would be here for me. I know, in my head, that this is true for those who care about me; and my heart would not trust assurances when I am in the depths of melancholy.

There are no horrible circumstances in my life. Things can be a bit hectic – sure – but that is to be expected. Among my father, my mother, my children, my mother-in-law, my closest friend, there are many anxious feelings floating around. My head grabs hold of the blessings – my kids’ relative health, my parents’ somewhat good health and often sound minds, my friends’ support structure during her trials (much more acute than anything I might be going through). This introverted soul of mine might just be cracking a little under the sheer weight of time – the accrued weight of years without aloneness.

Ingratitude: It hampers the ability to feel the blessings of ice cream covered kisses, high school graduations, and baseball games on strangely cool early summer evenings. It erases the means to laugh at the mistakes – knowing in the laughter that a good story will one day take the place of the angst.

I’ll be alright. Even if the words weren’t coming out now, I would be alright. My Savior has never stopped holding me. My family and friends have never stopped being there for me. Heck, to outward appearances (IRL), I have probably seemed quite better than alright all along.

Baby steps.

From 1994

PIERCING-

Can’t anyone else hear the screams?
Grasping -
Fingernails scratch-searching for a hold
Falling

The people go on
Buying
Their new and improved
Bigger
Better
Self-improvement
Foods, ointments, cars, homes

And the lost fall
Screaming
To the ground
Invisible
Inaudible

Alone

I AM still alive

2008-08-14T23:47:00.003-04:00

But things must be complicated if I am using capital letters in my title line. I just wanted a few people (hey Mel) to know I am still alive. I will try to write more later when I am not on the phone.

grrrrrr-dom

2008-04-25T00:16:00.003-04:00

I am sitting here trying to breathe deeply. I am attempting to hold myself steady in this chair as opposed to running up the stairs with anger blazing.

It is after midnight, and for (at least) the fifteenth night straight, the youngest two boys are still wide awake, loud, and out of bed (shortly after I leave the room, repeatedly). My insomnia is one thing, but getting four hours of sleep a night when I am actually tired, THAT is for the birds.

I need to find a place to put some of this wrath. Figuring out some way to MAKE them fall asleep wouldn't be a bad idea either.

Don't even get me started on how cheerful they are all day long either (not), or how cooperative they have been with schooling (8 hour school days, anyone?).

I need a vacation.

I wish I had a deep and meaningful post to write. I feel a little guilty posting this, but...

i got plenty of nothin

2008-04-22T01:51:00.003-04:00

Note: Since this post is taking me so long to write, dates are not accurate. I have also apparently killed any writing ability I once possessed.

I have been known to make the occasional error in judgment. I know it is hard to believe, but alas, it is true! Saturday was a small example of my humanity. The schedule looked something like this:

10 AM: Baseball practice for SpongeBob and the Pink One
12 PM: Get home, throw laundry in, and make lunch for the masses
2:30 PM: Drive the Instigator to his school for pre-performance band practice
3:30 PM: Return home and do more laundry while helping The Working Boy prepare for his first ever school dance.
5:30 PM: Attempt to locate relatively decent clothes for the remaining four to wear to “The Great Performance.”
6 PM: Leave the house for pre-performance dinner
7:45 PM: Arrive at the concert venue
Latertime PM: Pick the Instigator up from his post-performance return to school.
Latertime + 0:30 PM: Return home.

It was a somewhat busy day, perhaps, but do-able – done-able.

Everything was going along fine until the 5 PM mark. I even had time to do a crossword puzzle. This would be judgment error number one. From experience, I should know by now to have clothing choices made and arranged well in advance of actual departure times (and shoes located and padlocked into place pending later use), but seventeen and a half years in the trenches have apparently taught me very little.

Shortly before we would have to leave to make it a viable option, the hubster decided it would be a good plan to go out to eat before the performance (as noted in agenda article 6). After inquiring about my preferences (“I don’t know. I’d just like it to be someplace sit-down. I really do not want fast food.” Error number 2), when he attempted to further glean details as to my culinary yearnings (“I don’t know. I have no idea what’s out there in the world since I have absolutely no exposure to it and haven’t for seventeen years!”), I should have taken my obvious befrazzlement as an indication of my general mood for the day. Error number 3.

When the natives were already restless five minutes after sitting down to eat (even though it was buffet-style and they had some measure of distraction), I should have prepared myself for the trials to come. Yes, yet another error – are we sensing a trend yet?

When we pulled up to the concert venue with only five or ten minutes to spare before the start of the performance, when we noted all of the elderly people dressed to the nines, when my children almost took out two older ladies with walkers on the ramp leading inside…

There was a time when I considered myself quite astute at picking up the nuances which portend the prevailing winds of atmosphere. I can only surmise that years of ignoring the warnings (due to the certain knowledge that some fates cannot be changed when the precious munchkins are pulling the strings of circumstance) have dulled my ability to heed the alarm bells.

Strangely, the bells did finally reach my conscious mind while the hubster was arguing with the ticket master concerning the interpretation of the advertisement flier which promised half-off tickets for the family of students participating in this event. He took it to mean the adults were half-off as well. It stated the kids were but was ambiguous at best on the other terms. I married Mr. Itstheprincipleofthething.

I am not comfortable with public confrontation. I was in my late(-er) twenties before I could even go up to the counter of a fast food restaurant and tell them if they got my order wrong. Clearly, we are opposite extremes. I had hoped that some of our kids would get a bit of each and wind up somewhere in the middle.

At any rate, while this little discussion was taking place, I had the sudden and extreme urge to simply take the kids out to play on the ramp while Da Man went in alone. I ignored it. I’ve lost track of my errors somewhere along the way, but I know of at least one math geek who will likely read this, so maybe she can let me know later.

It was an abnormally warm and beautiful spring evening as we entered the heated auditorium.

The lights dimmed before we even had a chance to look at the programs (or we would have noticed the vital detail that the boy and his school’s marching band were in the very last number of the night).

The sweat trickled down our faces before the performance even began. The children continually opened and closed their chairs, letting them slam shut with a squeak-bang before repeating the process. Spongebob practiced burping in different rhythms. Freckles stuck his head in the seat and his fingers in his ears. The Drama King complained in Broadway whispers that the night was simply not to his liking and he was ready to go home. The hub and the Pink One engaged in a rousing performance of the Seat Versus Lap Ballet, and I sat silently fanning myself with a program – smack in the middle of the brood – wandering if there was any chance people would believe I wasn’t a member of this party (especially the elderly couple in front of us who clearly paid full-price and whose chairs the Spongemeister was repeatedly kicking, bumping, jostling or caressing - despite numerous scoldings).

And then there was the opening note.

And the husband’s barely stifled laughter.

And my inward groan.

The Culps took female form, donned an evening gown, and bastardized Gershwin (while, technically singing not one note off-key). The first five minutes finally passed about a week later. The heat increased. The wiggles and whines intensified. I found myself, at one point, crawling on the floor with a curly-headed boy locked between my knees while I searched for three pairs of discarded shoes. I applaud myself that I managed this without more than a rustle of sound.

By and by, the first half did come to an end. The intermission in the cool night air while thunderous gusts of pre-rain breeze lowered our temperatures, brought much cooler tempers as well.

I have to admit, the second half was better (despite the husband snapping his fingers loudly and just inconsistently enough to purposefully drive me crazy).

We sat in two different rows upon our return – separating the least pacific of the children in the process. The air seemed cooler. The Pink one dancing in the aisles was adorable (at first). The temperature in the room seemed to be slightly lower. But, the biggest aid to our decreased agitation had to be the ability to look at the programs and estimate with relative accuracy just how much time we had left to endure.

And finally, it came – the very last number. As the narration laid forth the final sentence of a song’s history, as she spoke the words, “Strike up the band,” the lights came up; a whistle sounded, and in marched a very small contingent of our son’s high school marching band.

“Let the drums roll out.” And they did, in exhilarating, modern-urban fashion. The band-front coaxed pep from the pep-less. The band reached the foot of the stage.

“Let the trumpets call!”

1 beat (I see the shift of the Instigator’s eyes toward the 1st trumpeter)

2 beats (his lips prepared, his fingers poised)

3 beats (almost imperceptible irritation and embarrassment briefly flashes over his brow)

3 ½ beats (the slightest of movements indicate the possibility that he will simply put his trumpet down)

And then…

A weak and off key melding of notes squeezed slowly from the bell of two of the three horns (alumni who learned the song that very day) spurs him to finally play his note (dead on).

And it was in that moment that I was grateful to the vocalist for her powerful voice as her shout of “Strike up the band!” erased the momentary worry from the Instigator’s face. But, I’m still not quite sure I will forgive her for the rendition of “Bess You Is My Woman Now”.

The moral of the story: When blessed by the overwhelming presence of active youth, don’t go to the Gershwin; make the Gershwin come to you.

the $24,000 question

2008-04-15T20:39:00.003-04:00

What will it be? "Adventures in Gershwin: When Marching Bands Attack" or "The Eyes Have It: Travails of a Family with Chronic Corneal Abrasions"?

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have subject matter now; I just don't have much time to actually write anything. I may be able to get to the keyboard in a short while if a certain baseball meeting runs long and the husband is late getting home.

So, in the event anyone checks this before I get back, any preferences?

that day

2008-04-04T09:16:00.002-04:00

two months ago, I wrote a small post about a morning trip to the dentist with my father. I left quite a bit out of the telling. I actually wrote that piece while sitting in the waiting room at the dentist’s office. The rest of the day went downhill from there. I’ll present it in bullet points.

The set-up:
- the driveway to the assisted living place is largely dirt, and there are very few places to actually park

-people coming by for just a moment are prone to blocking part of that driveway

-the dental appointment was during a relatively warm spell so the ground was muddy

The drama:
-when you don’t have a lot of confidence in yourself to back up through a maze of three cars on a dirt driveway into a relatively busy and curvy rural road, you are likely to make a three point turn

-making a three point turn on a muddy driveway is not a good idea

-getting stuck in the mud is not fun (especially when you do NOT want to let your father know you are still present on the grounds due to intense emotional rawness)

-waiting two hours for your son to come pick you up because your husband does not want to spend money on a tow truck is even less fun (especially when you missed breakfast, it is slightly past lunchtime, your stomach is growling, you have nothing to eat or drink in the car, and there is NOTHING within walking distance).

-when you have half an hour at home after your son picks you up but before your husband gets home to take you back out to try to free the car, your time would be better spent getting something to quell the growling gut than in posting a blog entry and feeding the children but forgetting about yourself.

-when your husband can’t get the car out after the first few tries, you would be better served aggressively suggesting the tow truck than meekly staying out of his way

-when, after several hours, the tow truck finally gets your car out (after a mere five minutes of effort), you may cry tears of stress and gratitude over your cold steering wheel for a few minutes before regaining the ability to drive

-when you get home at 10 PM, it would be a good idea to go straight to bed

-when the insurance check arrives a week later reimbursing the entire cost of towing, you may need to stifle the urge to hit someone with a cast-iron frying pan

Happily, the subsequent trips to the dentist were largely uneventful…

yes, breath still moves through me

2008-03-31T23:09:00.003-04:00

I do so greatly apologize for disappearing into the mist after such a sad post. I struggle lately to find my voice (perhaps a delayed by-product of switching to morning-person status at the beginning of the school year). But, while there is much sadness in me, it is more the gentle lapping tides of the east coast than the tumultuous waves of the west. There is also gratitude and contentment in me, so do not worry overmuch. Hopefully soon I will emerge from my hiding place and re-acquaint myself with finding the proper keys on the keyboard (with a more reasonable number of backspaces)....

-the silent one

reaching

2008-02-07T17:17:00.000-05:00

This man sits erect next to me – rigid with the knowledge that the world is out to confuse him. He just spoke to the offices yesterday. He was supposed to be at the other office today and this one in two weeks. How can they remove teeth before taking impressions? How will the impressions be accurate if there are no teeth to model? This office is trying to steal business from the other, and now he is going to get a bill from the other doctor too – for a no-show. He just talked to them yesterday. He wrote it down on the card in his wallet. See? It is written right here. His daughter is just trying to confuse him. This office must have everything backwards.

Pent up from the non-confrontational tendency to pacify by agreement, I must support a position based on second-hand knowledge. No, I didn’t talk to the oral surgeon myself. Yes, my sister did. Yes, I know you did too, but I am taking her words over yours – trusting her more. Yes, I understand that you cannot admit I was right about the office and instead have to make new defenses about dentists charging you double and changing the routine instead of you perhaps, just maybe, writing it down wrong. I reach out from my own hurt and isolation – understanding your fear when faced with direct proof that you cannot trust your certainty. I reach out knowing that in ten minutes, we will repeat the cycle. You will accuse me again. I will explain again. You will use your sugary voice to persuade the nurses that your daughter is horribly confused. I summon power from the God-seed deep within. I’m too young and vulnerable to find that power in my own character.

I am seven years old. Today I will blow out the candles to prove it. Where are you? You said you were coming. You even called me with the sole purpose of blessing me with that information. I don’t live with you, but I adore you. Maybe it is easier to do because I never remember a time when we did co-reside. The party ticks by. The cake is delayed. Your car never pulls into the all too empty space in front of our town home. The phone gives me no apologies or assurances – only empty rings.

After everyone leaves, I venture out to your town home – just a few blocks from our own for the first time. Your car isn’t there. There is no evidence of emergency. I just fell to the bottom of a priority list. The maturity of newly seven is certain that I am less valuable than doing drywall for a friend in return for a few beers and easy conversation. I am not worth the top of the list. I’m not even worth remembering.

My hand reaches out to touch your door, and it is cold just like the stiff shoulder turned to me now. The years of walls built to keep the pain away have been stripped gradually. I have no protection from the chill.

You walk through the doors into the chair. When I see you again, you will have six less teeth, but a full measure of bitterness toward me – bitterness that you will somehow remember even after you have forgotten what it is for.

I love you.

today, from the refrigerator

2008-01-25T09:04:00.000-05:00

the narrative:

my friend felt like a girl under worship

trudge together through delirious and hot chocolate

the imperative:

death of a mother by sausage

please stop shaking the fluffy fiddle puppy at her breast

smear sweet lather on your shadow

always incubate repulsive language

yes you may beat up a drunk wet purple honey finger

watch their peaches

the philosophic:

a languid flood would recall my power

sleep after a bitter vision

vague mutterings from underneath the laundry pile

2008-01-15T08:07:00.000-05:00

well excu-u-use me

“You need to blog more often,” typed a dear friend. I agree with her, but it seems all I manage to do lately when I blog is make excuses for my lengthy absences. There are some valid excuses: family issues alluded to in previous posts concerning my father and his physical and mental well-being, the holidays, a certain inability to use my fingers for about a week after Christmas, my darling husband taking time off work during the two weeks surrounding the holidays, my preference for typing on the desktop which was largely controlled by the aforementioned husband, not to mention (though I am) my finicky ‘v’ on the laptop. The truth is, though, that when I am faced with a blank page and blinking curser, I am simultaneously overwhelmed with the fact that I both have altogether too much and absolutely nothing to write about.

the times, they are a-changin’

The N boy had a job interview last week – the real kind, the actual career kind. This is a computer-related company run by someone the hubster used to work with, one which helps obtain certifications and reimburses for college courses according to grades received. And just like that, I am rudely awakened with the certainty that my time with this child under my roof is oh so short and precious. The prospect of college didn’t wake me up to this knowledge – the financial dependence married to higher education gave me a cushion of safety. Tell me, how does one prepare for a child to leave the nest when they have never even gone to school away from home? I know I am jumping the gun a bit. He won’t even be 18 until October, but with great velocity it approaches!

a first time for everything

We recently had to move my father into an assisted living facility. Physically, he is in remarkably good shape considering how many underlying health issues there have been, but he suffers from dementia. Sometimes, you can spend more than an hour with him and barely notice that anything is wrong. Other times, you can have the same conversation repeatedly for that hour. If it weren’t for certain circumstances, he would probably be fine living with my sister or me. As things stand, this is the best option. The facility is in an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere (and relatively inexpensive in the comparative analysis) which is a good environment for him. Still, he gets a bit stir crazy from time to time.

Last weekend (as in more than a week ago now, since it is taking me so long to write this post) I went up to take him out to the movies. We stopped for lunch first, enjoyed the film, and then stopped to buy him a calendar (his way of trying to keep track of time – though my sister also bought him one last week, so I don’t think it is working very well).

If I tell you that the factors in this equation are a chilly day, a bad memory-loop day, a moment of stupidity on my part, and a son with a very bad sense of direction, will that give too much away? Yes, dear reader, I locked my keys in my car for the very first time. I do believe the resultant hour and a half wait for rescue (and all of the associated grievances) might just be a strong enough deterrent to keep me from ever repeating that mistake. There is always hope.

let it rise

And then there is bread.

Sunday, I made pizza dough in the bread maker. The recipe merely instructs the dough to be divided after it has spent its kneading time in the appliance, then formed into crusts. Sacrilege! Those divided pieces of dough must be lovingly shaped into dough balls and left to merrily rise before forming. It is a moral imperative – even for me, and I don’t like pizza! In fact, an overnight rise in the refrigerator produces the very best results. But time, in this particular instance, was not on my side; therefore, I could be found forming semi-pliable dough into recognizable disks early Sunday evening.

The ingredients of life blend together. They are kneaded and allowed to rise in their melded state. If I try to work the dough as soon as the kneading is complete, frequently I end up with tears or holes – with patches and lumps – with a battle-scarred, tough, and barely recognizable finished product.

And so, as life’s cares weigh on me – most of them minor ingredients – I seek the wisdom to allow the rise time and, simultaneously, the ability to remember that I have the dough rising at all.

Life scurries past – a white rabbit in a rush, and I find it is so much easier to focus on the swiftly fleeting details of each passing day, allowing myself only the briefest of introspective moments. If I’m not careful, I will end up with dough of Lucille Ball proportions.

How thankful I am that control of my life does not rest solely in my hands (even if that is hard to take sometimes) but in the hands which lovingly formed the very fabric of the universe!

the refrigerator

2007-12-28T10:01:00.000-05:00

The outside of a person and the inside of a person are often very different things. I’m not talking about muscles and blood and body organs either. Inside of each human, there is a depth that makes them tick, gives them purpose, and defines who they are.

Refrigerators are backwards.

On the inside of a refrigerator, you will find the foods which sustain us, but which also go into the make-up of our external bodies – the foods which nourish us and those which add character to our hips, our waists – our outward frames.

In many homes, the outside of a refrigerator is rife with preschool drawings and family pictures. Our home isn’t much different in its capacity to show the inner workings of the mind – the medium is just different.

There is a chore calendar – laminated in hopefulness to allow a white board marker the freedom to cross off accomplished chores. It bears no marks.

There is an enormous magnetic band-aid perched above the memo pads for recording needed groceries (blank) and telephone numbers for callback purposes (also blank).

There are various free magnets from assorted solicitors by mail.

There is a bumper sticker, held down with an earth magnet, bearing the words Fat people are harder to kidnap.

And there is a new addition.

On Thanksgiving, at my sister’s house, the entire family enjoyed playing with the magnetic words they had on their refrigerator. This enjoyment was obvious enough that my mother gifted us with our own set for Christmas.

While our ponderings varied from silly to profound upon my sister’s cooling vessel, they have yet to gain such loft on our own.

From the freckled boy on Thanksgiving came these haunting words:

Speak the word slowly as though a whisper can be judged.

He is a bit amazed at all of the fuss those words received claiming not to truly understand them himself. I, on the other hand, have contemplated the heritage of assembling text that somehow speaks the inner workings of the soul while remaining only the messenger that carries them to the outside world.

But alas, perhaps our own refrigerator’s surface just as accurately captures the little idiosyncrasies that make us who we are.

The Drama King (9):

Pedal when drunk
and
crush the light

driving could be eternity

The Freckled One (12):

pound, stare, and love a puppy

The N Boy (17):

I as wet of a storm
smell beauty spring and
sausage heave

Spongebob (6):

TV’s purple finger
why love time

The Brat (old):

drool sweet juice there in the dream
music of honey spray

Da Man (older):

Stop leaving a smear

And a bonus anonymous entry (which may be attributed to the Instigator (14)):

Dress in shaking peaches
blood is behind shining pictures

I’m sure the Pink One will be contributing soon, but she has yet to learn how to sound out words. Once she does, I am betting we are all in trouble.

still kicking (and screaming)

2007-12-27T16:24:00.000-05:00

I just wanted to let you all know that I am okay. Things have even gotten somewhat better in all of the unmentionable directions. I will certainly try to be back soon with more substance.

-the brat

bread pudding

2007-12-11T08:25:00.000-05:00

There is a certain stillness that emanates from the not quite comfortable cushions of the visitor’s chair in a hospital room. It whispers of mortality and importance. It beckons deep thought while the outer crust of awareness seeks distraction. I find myself struggling to evade the level of openness necessary for baking bread. Given the complexity of the situation, my hesitation is understandable. It isn’t a matter of a mere can of worms – more in the order of an industrial sized vat.

There has been a lot of rawness this past week. Finding a balance between searching my soul and maintaining some privacy is no small feat. But bread must be made and ingredients must be measured.

Is it consolation or desolation to have a loved one hit rock bottom? That question still hangs, uncertain, in front of me. For you see, rock bottom is a catalyst for intervention, which is a motivating factor in upward motion. And that motion would be considered consolation…or should be. There is always the possibility that the loved will wish to hang out in the pit for awhile.

Could I be any more cryptic? It is doubtful. Perhaps I will find the words to be less mysterious soon. For now, I hold fast to the consolation that God hears my prayers, and He holds the fragile bits of me in his ever capable hands – much safer than being in my own.

rose colored glasses

2007-12-06T10:08:00.000-05:00

So yesterday, shortly after making red kool-aid, I had to blow my nose. Ah, the pinkness! I don't know how to remedy this. I have tried putting a little water in the bottom of the container first to reduce airborn dust among other methods.

The question is, since I have a two paned window directly above the sink and kool-aid is made pretty regularly in the House of Brat, would it be reasonable to assume that I am looking at the world through rose colored glasses?

I hope so. I can use all the help I can get.

breaking the fast

2007-12-03T10:55:00.001-05:00

sleeping with bread

airing the laundry

It is hard to start a post when you know you are going to fight yourself over hitting the ‘publish’ button.

I have been lauded in the past for being open and honest about trials and tribulations in my life. I have taken those praises like a guilt-slap. For you see, it is very hard for me to write or speak anything emotionally searing, open, or honest until sufficient time has passed to allow me some distance. I can be brutally real as long as I am talking about something that has, largely, already been neatly categorized, dealt with, and filed under “loss” or “depression” or “mistakes to learn from”.

In April of this year, I wrote a poem. It wasn’t a particularly good poem, but it was an honest expression of how I was feeling at the time. In a fit of bravado, I posted it to my blog. It stayed there for all of 1 ½ minutes before I took it down – too raw to risk.

I have posted many things about the loss of my son Caleb – deep and personal things, but I didn’t manage to work up the courage to write online (even among a group of women experiencing the same loss) until almost a year after his birth.

I think I had hoped that with a blog, I would have a canvas for those raw emotions. As a teen, I carried pen and paper with me everywhere I went in case the need to write encompassed me. Much of what made it to paper in those days was, quite honestly, horrendous, but the very act of releasing it onto the paper was a salve.

I don’t feel free to write like that anymore. There are too many people that could be impacted by it. The newest emotions are often jagged-edged. Their barbs stick into vulnerable bits of exposed flesh. They are the gut-reaction, pre-school tantrum, “Woe is me” cries of uncensored id. Yet, this very aversion to writing it out may be affecting that same vulnerable flesh in everything I say and do. Without release, those emotions tend to leech into the unrelated actions of day to day life.

the should principle

Some of them are little things which slowly build into seemingly enormous piles. Some of them are birthed from self-doubt and insecurity. Some of them are selfish desires unmet. Still others are legitimate reasons for irritation. All of them act as catalyst to churning emotion. I know for a fact that I should feel freedom simply by releasing these things to God in prayer. And largely, I do, but there is ingrained in my pores the need to physically release them too.

When I write of consolation and desolation, the desolation is always drawn from the deep well of emotional necessity. The consolation? Most frequently the high notes are tacked upon the end because my mind recognizes them as truth. Often, I have yet to develop the ability to “feel” that truth. It is an act of will to place them in front of my eyes as the goal, the joy, the ideal. It is true that this very act does help to refocus my vision, but I wonder. Am I holding onto a small seed of resentment when I choose to hold up the silver lining? Am I wishing that, somehow, someway, someone would simply notice the little desolations and scare them away so that consoling would not be necessary? Am I holding back a portion of each desolation in order to pull it out later for use as a weapon, a brooding point, or an excuse?

I have often said that I am trapped in Romans 7: 14-25.

14 For we know that the law is spiritual, but I am carnal, sold under sin. 15 For what I am doing, I do not understand. For what I will to do, that I do not practice; but what I hate, that I do. 16 If, then, I do what I will not to do, I agree with the law that it is good. 17 But now, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells in me. 18 For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh) nothing good dwells; for to will is present with me, but how to perform what is good I do not find. 19 For the good that I will to do, I do not do; but the evil I will not to do, that I practice. 20 Now if I do what I will not to do, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells in me.

21 I find then a law, that evil is present with me, the one who wills to do good. 22 For I delight in the law of God according to the inward man. 23 But I see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members. 24 O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?

25 I thank God—through Jesus Christ our Lord! So then, with the mind I myself serve the law of God, but with the flesh the law of sin.

I repeat verse 25- drilling it into my brain. I do thank…I do. But, I have so much trouble moving on to the first verse of Romans 8.

1 There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus, who do not walk according to the flesh, but according to the Spirit.

I believe it. I do. But I don’t usually feel it.

And today, as I continue reading Romans 8, I notice that it talks of being spiritually-minded, not spiritually-feelinged. It sparks a small hope in me. I guess, sometimes, I just wish acknowledging that would make the battle go away without me having to actually put any effort into it. How’s that for honesty? Like the grasshopper, I want all of the benefit and none of the work. I am sick of the work. I want to curl up and be cared for and coddled. I want to be without responsibility. I grow tired of being the one in charge – especially when viewing my shortcomings.

And perhaps the need to write it all out stems simply from my repeated attempts to fill a place in my heart (that will only tolerate perfection) with fallible humans - myself, my husband, my children, my family and friends. When will I rest in the knowledge that the spot is already filled with a perfection found only in God?

I set my mind to the goal.

I pray my feelings learn to follow.

that poem from april:

subdermal

trapped by the ankle
pulled forcefully into fissure
camouflaged by underbrush
as silent scream rings out and pierces
nothing

passing frames
seek only
what is directly in their line of sight,
or the limitless tasks
waiting to be prioritized
by their mind’s eye.

inaudible pleas,
beseeching eyes,
mere inches away -
grasping
for anything
to slow the slide.

solitude of thought.

-tle 4/14/07

collage

2007-11-21T08:20:00.000-05:00

There are a bunch of couch cushions scattered randomly through at least three rooms of the house. Toys are strewn about haphazardly. Everything needs to be vacuumed, dusted, scrubbed or decontaminated. The “To Do” list would be a mile long if I could be bothered to make it. Through practice, I am getting better at looking around without seeing any of it.

Notebooks and textbooks balance precariously on the radiator cover. Whiteboard markers slowly lose moisture through the hairline gap which is the difference between full closure and…not. Two week old spelling words taunt from the sidelines, “Yo! Ya still remember how to spell us?”

An empty tissue box houses a naked Barbie and a Transformer. The ear thermometer takes up semi-permanent residence on the kitchen counter. The laundry and dishes are relatively contained at last.

In everything, give thanks.

the box on the shelf

2007-11-14T10:32:00.000-05:00

When I was younger, I was always quite proud of the fact that I was not a very materialistic person, but like so many of my self-interpretations from years gone by, close inspection sometimes highlights unexpected details. I like my things – my TV, my computer, my moist-heat heating pad, my pillows and blankets, my music. I enjoy having an ability I didn’t have for most of my life (including many of the married years) – that ability to get what I feel like eating from the grocery store. I have become rather attached to some of the more material aspects of my life.

Julie from Using My Words (formerly The Ravin’ Picture Maven) says this about the Hump Day Hmmm Today: “I am so distressed for the people of California who've been affected by this fire. 1600 of them so far have lost their homes, lost everything. It's made me think about loss, what we value, and potential gain. Let's write about that. Imagine losing all your material possessions (except the few you can carry)... Or, tell us a story about some sort of loss. If you can inspire through hope, and tell us about something you gained from it, and real value, please definitely do that.”

A question that is sometimes thrown out for pondering among friends is this: “If your house was on fire and all of the people and animals were already out safely, what would you try to save?” As a child, I got to test this theory when the firemen arrived at our door one day. We lived in a town home, and one of our neighbors had a furnace which exploded. There was a fear that this explosion was going to set off a chain reaction, so the firemen were evacuating our entire court. I grabbed my favorite stuffed animal and my guinea pig as I chased the cat out the door. Weighing my answer today against my answer so many years ago, I guess I haven’t really changed that much. The first things I would reach for would be the irreplaceable things – the photos, the poetry, and one very special box. Ironically, that box already represents loss, and sacrificing it on top of the injury already sustained would be a sore trial indeed though the contents would seem too trivial to merit such a reaction – a few cards, a few pictures, a very small, satiny nightgown, and a simple knitted hat.

On Friday or Saturday, I will open that box. I will allow my fingers to touch the cloth and the cards, my eyes to scan the visible remnants; I will allow the tears to come. I am a bit hesitant to figuratively open that box today, so close to the anniversary of that day. There is a risk to opening the floodgates prematurely and allowing the associated emotion to wash over me. My suspicion is that the built-up melancholy on this particular year is enough to overwhelm me.

Ten years ago, on Sunday November 16, I went to church as I have on most Sundays in my married life. After church, I was worn out, antsy – perhaps the best way to describe that day is simply to excerpt some letters I wrote a few weeks later.

December 7, 1997 (two weeks 6 days)

Dearest Caleb-

In about three hours, it will mark three weeks since your father and I left for the hospital to find out you were gone. Just about an hour ago (that week), you were jumping around inside of me. When I came home from church, I was so tired. Nothing was unusual about that; I was tired every moment that I carried you. I went upstairs to take a nap at about 3 and had a lot of trouble sleeping soundly. When I finally woke up, around 4:00, I was in terrible pain. It felt a lot like labor with your oldest brother, except there was no break between the pains. I was worried. I told your father, “Either I am severely constipated or I am in labor.” He responded that I couldn’t be in labor. Oh, if we only knew how wrong he was. A few minutes later I looked down to notice that I was bleeding. That was when I really got scared. But my son, I never thought you would die before you were even born!

Going to the hospital, I tried to comfort myself by thinking of what they would probably do - administer drugs to stop the labor, observe us for some time, and send us home. I prayed that I would end up feeling stupid for going to the hospital when nothing was wrong.

The nurse strapped the monitor to me and immediately we heard a heartbeat, but she looked concerned and took my pulse. She then moved the monitor, stating that I was so upset that it was picking up my heartbeat instead of yours. No matter where she moved it, she kept coming up with my heartbeat. So, when they wheeled in the machine to do the sonogram, I was quite aware of the fact that there was no heartbeat in your chest - that you were just lying there, little fists clenched, motionless. I didn’t want to believe what I saw, so I didn’t let it sink in quite yet. Then, they told us what we saw. They explained the blood clot next to the placenta. They told us you were gone. Still, it wasn’t real. I didn’t think I would grieve until later. I do tend to be delayed reactionary.

I still had to deliver you. They would administer pitocin to try to induce active labor. You needed to come out of me. As long as I did not start hemorrhaging severely, that meant vaginal birth. In the state of shock I was in, I could deal with delivering you, or I could deal with the pain, but I could not deal with both! I didn’t just want an epidural, I wanted drugs! I did NOT want to think. I did not want to feel! I got the drugs - something called Stadol, which is in the Valium family, AND the epidural. But, nothing took the pain away. When the Stadol would first start working, I was okay - a bit oblivious to everything around me. But soon, it would begin to wear off, and my emotions would wake back up, and I couldn’t take the pain. I couldn’t take the pain of childbirth, knowing that I wouldn’t have you at the end of it. I am afraid I was quite a baby.

When the time came to push you out, I was screaming in anger at the world. I was screaming that it hurt so badly…that I didn’t want to push, to have the pain - that I just wanted you out of me! And then there you were. I had hoped, even through all of this, that somehow, miraculously, you would be alive, even after all we had seen with our own eyes. I remembered those times that Christ chose to bring people back from the grave. Even when I saw that you weren’t alive, a part of me hoped that when I touched your fingers, some of the life would come out of me and breathe into you the life that was so obviously absent. I wanted to make up for whatever it was that I did that took you from me. I could not stop feeling that I killed you.

You didn’t breathe. You didn’t suddenly come to life like the ending of a Disney movie. You were out of my reach forever. I kissed you and held you as tears wracked my body. I looked at your father and cried out “He’s dead! Our sweet baby is dead!” Even knowing you were gone, I could not let go of you. Oh how tempted I was to play the “what if” game. But I knew there was no healing in that. I knew nothing could come of it and I just had to face the fact that you were gone forever.

You were born one minute after midnight, so technically, the date on everything is the 17th of November, but to me, it will always be the 16th because on that day I knew you were gone.

I was so concerned about the wellness of everyone else - the nurses, your Mom Mom and Pop Pop, my mother. I had to let you go…they needed to do a D&C on me to remove the massive blood clots. They promised me I could see you again after if I so desired. Although they couldn’t knock me out to give birth to you, they could to remove the blood - and they did. I don’t remember how long it was - I don’t really remember getting to the operating room or to the recovery room after. I do remember seeing your father and eventually both of our mothers afterward. I do remember holding you again - kissing you again - trying to convince myself to let them put you in that bassinet and wheel you away forever. I do remember sitting, alone and awake in the middle of the night after everyone had gone home. I felt as though I could sleep if only they brought you to me. I could curl up with you in my arms and drift off into dreams. But, I refrained from asking for this - knowing somehow that to do this would be entering into a long path of denial. So instead, I flicked through channels on the TV as I stared off into space feeling emptier than I ever had in my life.

When I looked into a mirror, I was so swollen that I was not recognizable as myself. But beyond that, the eyes that stared back at me were not my own. Oh sweet Caleb, I couldn’t see ever getting past the loss that I felt that day!

Today, as I sat in church, I felt sort of numb and disconnected. Nothing feels like it means as much and yet every feeling seems so much more vivid and weighty. At most times, I am able to live life again. Something changed about a week ago that gave me the ability to move forward. Through all of this, I have felt the hand of our almighty Lord upon me, holding me together when I could not hold myself - letting me cry upon His shoulder when I needed it - drying my tears when the crying time was spent. But now, I can see moving onward. I am able to look at the future again without viewing it ONLY in regards to what stage we would have been in with you, had things been different.

I don’t really know where I go from here, my sweet child. I know only that I need to keep my eyes on God lest I shatter. I miss you.

Time passes, wounds heal, scars fade. But that box? It holds the only physical proof I have of my son’s life. I know with all of my being that losing everything we call our own would sear me deeply, but I also know that they are just things. I have lost more than things in my life, and God upheld me.

There is, in times of deep vulnerability, a spark which smolders, a spark so small that it can often only be seen in retrospect. The survival instinct, the fighting spirit instilled within us by our creator feeds on that spark and grows. Sometimes, the beauty of gratitude, of priorities, of community spirit is allowed to shine so brightly only because the many concealing layers of the extraneous have been peeled away.

Today, so close to the ten year anniversary of Caleb’s death, I am thankful for the friends I have made that would never have crossed my path had it not been for our mutual losses. My prayers are with any and all who experience heart-rending dispossession whether it be material or emotional. I hope that they are able to turn their eyes away from what isn’t and seek comfort in gratitude for what remains.

It may be trite, but there is some truth to the saying, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

leaves

2007-11-11T00:19:00.000-05:00

I can remember autumn-soft days from years gone by when the crispness in the air sent vigor through my nerves. Me, walking amid the slant-altered light and pre-crisp leaves – fallen – while others still held tenuously affixed to the brighter than blue bulletin board of sky. I remember the sense of deep Creator knowledge that embodied my visible breaths.

These days, my autumn view is far more likely to consist of four walls and several whiteboards, spelling lists and solitaire, dirty laundry and red-exed calendar boxes. But, every so often, even in my urban setting, when I am rounding a bend in the road on my marching band participant retrieval route, the light and colors will tenderly awe me, and I remember what it is like to be whole.

random ponderings

2007-11-05T23:38:00.000-05:00

There are definite disadvantages to being female when you live in an old house...

...especially at five in the morning when your bathrooms don't have heat.

Just sayin'.

And there you have it, the deep thoughts which took an entire month to brew.

Wasn't it worth the wait?

killing the yeast

2007-10-02T09:09:00.000-04:00

sleeping with bread

Some days are better than others. Friday was an ‘other’.

Over the years, a parent develops a set of warning signs that misbehavior is afoot. Sometimes, out of sheer exhaustion (or laziness), the brain tunes out the warning signs in the interest of five more minutes of quality vegetable imitation. And sometimes the warning signs change.

I sent the youngest three upstairs to get ready for bed. The older kids were already in their rooms achieving lofty goals – or the next level on their games as the case may be - so I planned to let the littles play for a bit before venturing up the stairs. The darlings began playing together with soft giggles and periodic bursts of greater laughter.

There was none of that eerie quiet, you know the one – it signals imminent disaster.

There were no screams and yells or conspiratorial whispers.

No strange thumps resounded through the hallway.

In fact, there wasn’t a single warning until the DK (drama king) quietly came down the stairs in search of towels. I have to admit my curiosity was piqued enough to inspire rapid motion.

That forward momentum came to an abrupt halt upon reaching the top of the stairs. Approximately ½ inch of water covered the floor in much of the hallway and bathroom. Children, with suddenly guilt-ridden faces, grasped surgical gloves and baby wipe containers tightly to their chests. Spongebob played a marching song on a vacuum cleaner tube trumpet acquired from the base of the dyson by virtue of a screwdriver and thirty seconds of solitude.

Fragmented: existing or functioning as though broken into separate parts; disorganized; disunified.

It would be reasonable to say that ‘fragmented’ was an apt descriptor of the momma bear’s reaction. Like a super-sized grenade, the explosion sent shards of recrimination in search of soft flesh. Harsh words flew off the ends of each towel as it was whipped across the floor in attempted damage control. There is a rumor that the words, “I will sell your computers and beds on ebay if I have to buy a new vacuum!” exited the momma bear’s mouth.

The children, exhibiting conciliatory powers worthy of Nobel’s attention, picked shrapnel from their wounds without complaint while simultaneously uttering placating murmurs of apology.

Eventually, the mess was cleaned, the children were bedded, and the momma bear did her level best to disguise any evidence that the sun was indeed going down on her wrath.

The truth about strong-willed children is that the moment a discipline is meted out, the wheels begin turning in their brains, measuring the pain of the punishment against the joy of the misbehavior. If you look closely at their eyes, you can sometimes even catch a glimpse of the machinery at work.

The very next morning as the three were charged with the responsibility of cleaning their rooms, the DK came down the stairs and sadly stated, “They’re doing it again with the water.” Apparently his lack of complicity in the follow-up event activated his tattle-tale function. Apparently his machinery decided greater joy could be gotten from remaining the innocent party. Apparently the momma bear needed to see the destruction first hand in order to gain a little perspective.

Baby wipe containers, filled to overflowing with additional water, flanked the bathroom sink as Spongebob and the pink one engaged in a slap fight with water-filled surgical gloves – each slap disgorging the contents therein. Discipline ensued. Cleaning continued, and the momma bear went down the steps with a thoughtful countenance.

Just when did I start thinking I could do this parenting thing by myself? It is, perhaps, the most important job I have here on earth, and it is the one that I have decided can be trusted to my own fallible reasoning and fickle moods.

They are children. They are creative children. They need discipline and guidance, it is true, but my tendency, when taking the reins, is to react from the biased edge of reasoning. Some part of me occasionally feels the misbehavior as a personal insult, a statement of uncaring, and a judging finger pointing down on all of the ways that I have failed to be the perfect parent. That perceived judgment expands the cracks of insecurity until explosion results in fragmentation.

But I’m not in this alone.

For by him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things were created by him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together. –Colossians 1:16,17

The sooner I remember this, the better my parenting.

As I came down the stairs and related the story to the hubster, a smile played across my lips. How can you not appreciate the creativity that went into their escapades? How can you not tilt the angle of the lens just enough to realize that, hey, at least now the hallway is clean? How can you not remember that God has it all in His very capable hands, and, the act of wresting that control from Him to solo parent exhibits the same kind of defiance played out by those of smaller stature? When that knowledge hits home, how can you not then view your children through different, more compassionate and understanding eyes?

It’s that little glow of love and understanding interspersed with the discipline that makes all the difference in the world. It’s the supporting shoulder of God and the glory in His creation that refits the pieces, erases the seams, and makes that which was broken become whole.