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Are You There, God? (It's Me, Christy. . . )
I talk a lot. A whole lot. To my friends, my family, my mom, my kids. I talk on the phone, I talk on the treadmill, I talk in my sleep. I talk to strangers in the grocery store, to the person next to me in any line, and to any cashier, waiter, waitress, delivery person or crossing guard who will talk back. I just never know what I might learn. 
You Are Enough
Every flaw is magnified
Underneath your hardened eyes
You pick yourself apart
And cut you down to size
It’s just standard operation
For your self-humiliation
It’s become so much your normal
That you don’t realize
You are enough
You are enough
You are exactly where
You need to be
Right now it’s tough
But all that you need
To get through
Is already in you
You are enough
There’s so much pain all around you
From the nerdy plain jane
To the pretty girl, too
You just never know
So you think that you’re alone
That no one can relate to you
And you’re the only one
It’s gonna be all right
Don’t like your job
Don’t like your life
You’re fighting with your husband
Your fighting with your wife
No one understands you
They’ve never been your age
It’s funny
Each new generation
Has the same old rage
You are enough
You are enough
You are exactly where
You need to be
Right now it’s tough
But all that you need
To get through
Is already in you
You are enough
There’s never been a you before
So how can someone
Tell you how to be?
I wish that I could take away
Your doubt and set you free
Start from where you are
Take it in stride
Call it all good
Call it a win
Reach from inside
You are enough
You are enough
You are exactly where
You need to be
Right now it’s tough
But all that you need
To get through
Is already in you
You are enough
You are enough
You are exactly where you need to be
Right now it’s tough
But all that you need
To get through
Is already in you
I am enough
Testing the Water
Merry Christmas, Jono
A Christmas Carol
Oh, I love a Christmas carol. I count down the days until the Friday after Thanksgiving, the self-imposed start-date for the playing of all Christmas music in my house and my car. From this day and throughout December, all radios are tuned to the 24-hour Christmas station, and I love every song that plays. From a symphony orchestra playing classical seasonal music, to
The Thanksgiving Blog
A re-post of the essay that started it all. . . 
My husband is allergic to poultry. A unique and difficult, but not unbearable affliction most times of the year, but a tricky one to live with in the month of November. When the topic first comes up in conversation, people are usually very interested. “Chicken?” they ask? “Duck? Goose?” Yes. Chicken, duck and goose, and anything else that flies. “Eggs?” No. Not eggs, but he doesn't like them. If you ask me, this really shouldn’t be an option when your choices are limited to begin with, but all those years ago at the allergist when Adam was six, nobody thought to ask me.
So every year, the week of Thanksgiving arrives, and everyone in my house is getting ready for our annual trek to
Before I continue with my Thanksgiving story, I need to share with you that many of my mother’s relatives are Jews. I grew up going to Bar Mitzvahs, Bat Mitzvahs, and occasionally attending Hebrew school with my cousin Julie. I remember Julie’s Bat Mitzvah very well because I was 13, too. A 13-year-old not-quite-confirmed, not-yet-baptized girl watching Julie complete this rite of passage. But what I remember most is the pink-and-white reception that followed, spending the night, and watching her open the gifts and the cards and the money and thinking. . . I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to be a Jew. But it was not meant to be, and a few months later I completed my own confirmation, following a quickie baptism that same morning, next to the boy of my dreams. Tom Lucky. I was certain that the fact that Tom Lucky and I were being baptized together on confirmation day meant that we would be together forever. I mean seriously. . .holy water? If that’s not binding, what is? But some dreams are not meant to be, and so I arrive back at my story, present day, where I am driving in my silver Honda Odyssey with the poultry-allergic, most-certain-man-of-my dreams back home to see my grown-up cousin Julie and all of my relatives for Thanksgiving Day.
And I am driving a pork dinner into the midst of my semi-Jewish family. It’s as if I need to have little signs to stick into all of the dishes. Something like, “Warning!
You may wonder what any of this has to do with why I have chosen The First Congregational Church of Hudson as my church home. Here is a place where I can be true to my faith background. Here, I have freedom to respect and honor the faiths of those that I love, all while worshiping in the way that I choose to worship and serving in the way that I choose to serve. When we were completing our membership class, Adam and I were asked to draw representations of our faith journeys, and to write about our faith backgrounds. This is mine, in a nutshell. (Not a peanut shell, of course!) I know that my faith future is here. This November, and always, I am grateful for and proud of what my church represents and upholds. Christian or Jew, poultry or pork, I know that anyone I love will be accepted through these doors, and this I count among my many blessings.
My youngest brother was married this summer. She’s a teacher, she’s smart, she’s pretty, and they really, really love each other. And, wouldn't you know it, she’s a good Jewish girl. I think she'll be right at home.
Note to Self
Reading and writing and . . . well, they said there would be no math, and so far, there's been no math. But lately, I've been doing an awful lot of the other stuff! I've taken on a personal (ridiculous?) challenge. November is National Novel Writing Month, or as the official website dubs it, NaNoWriMo. We writers, on the website, are referred to as Wrimos. Every time I see these abbreviations, I feel a little like Mork from Ork. "Na-nu, Na-nu," remember? Anyway, the challenge is 50,000 words by the end of the month. The month is halfway over, and I'm not quite halfway there, but I think I can catch up. Although Thanksgiving will present a writing challenge, so I better finish early, which means I'm really quite behind. And when I try to figure out how many words per day, that brings math right back into the. . . um . . . equation.
When Failure is an Option
When You Give a Girl a Pancake . . .
Text from Cindy: I miss you. Can we have breakfast?
Text from Me: I miss u too. I have to do errands and take shower. What time?
Cindy: Leaving for Perkins 8:50. Lisa coming too.
Me: Skipping everything. See you there.
It is Friday. On Wednesday, I walked with Lisa and Peg, and Lisa and I went to Perkins after for breakfast. On Thursday, Lisa and Peg and I walked again, and all three of us went to Perkins. Now it's Friday. Here we go again.
Backstory: For a couple of years, Cindy and Lisa and I frequented Perkins a lot. A LOT. We have a waitress, Kathy, who is more like a friend now, who takes care of us, knows us, and more likely than not, loves us. And we love her. This past year, we've been there less, for a variety of reasons, but when we all go together, it's like nothing has changed. This summer, Lisa has been fighting cancer, and she has been visiting Perkins with her husband after treatments at the Cleveland Clinic. Kathy has become yet another member of Lisa's ever-growing support group. Now we hug her and she is "in the know." It's good to have a pancake connection "in the know."
When we approached the familiar hostess stand this morning, we asked to be seated in her section, but in the sunshine, please, out in the glassed-in porch area.
"Could you please tell her that the president, vice-president and treasurer of her fan club are here?" said Cindy, to the hostess.
Kathy came, with three diet Cokes. Often,she just brings a fourth for whomever needs it first. Sometimes, a pitcher.
She teased Cindy about working too much, we discussed Grey's Anatomy, but not the end because Lisa hasn't seen it yet. And then down to the serious business of ordering.
Cindy first.
"An egg white omelet, veggie. But I don't like mushrooms."
"Fruit?"
"Nope."
"Toast or pancakes?" asked Kathy.
"French silk pie."
"Okey-dokey."
Then Lisa.
"Kathy, I really want The Traveller, but you don't have it anymore except on the Over 55 menu. But my body is kind of working like a 94-year old woman lately."
"It's fine, Toots."
"I want that."
"Sausage or bacon?"
"Bacon."
"Fruit?"
"Nope."
Then me.
"I want what I had yesterday, please. That wrap, but I can't have ham. Can you sub veggies, please?"
"Yep."
"Can I have Egg Eeaters?"
"You got it. Fruit?"
"Not today."
"Isn't anyone having pancakes?" says Cindy. "Darn it."
"You can all split a side," says Kathy.
"Perfect," we all say.
We always split a side of pancakes anyway, and she knows it. It's nice, though, that she tries to let us pretend to order our own meal.
She brings Cindy's pie first. Cindy runs and swims about 100 miles a day, so the pie probably is burned off before it hits her stomach. Lucky.
Then three plates, one pancake each.
"I gave you the pancakes free, girls. Somehow the pie took the place of the. . .oh never mind," says Kathy. We all applaud the free pancakes.
More diet Cokes. Breakfasts. More good discussion among ourselves, and with Kathy, when she has time.
Lisa announces that she has coupons, which is a new addition to our Perkins outing. One for a free entree, one for a 4.99 premium omelet.
"Yes," says Kathy, "you can use them all. "I'll ring you up so it works out best."
The bills come with stickers and smileys. We pay. I think we leave tips that probably amount to about 80%.
It's good to have one pancake on a plate. It's good when Kathy knows what you like and why. It's good when Lisa has an appetite. It's good to gossip and catch up next to the window in the sunshine. It's good when the waitress is a friend and she hugs you. It's good to start a weekend with pie in the morning.
Women's Health Fair September 26th with Dr. Michael Roizen
First Congregational Church of Hudson Hosts Women's Health Fair September 26
Hey, all you busy and wonderful women out there! You take care of your families, you take care of your parents, your spouses, your communities, your pets, and your neighbors. For one very special day, come join us as we learn about caring for ourselves. The Women's Health Fair on September 26th runs from 9:00 AM to 3:00 PM, and we are so excited to welcome Dr. Michael Roizen as the featured speaker from 12:45-1:45. Please come and attend every booth, see every presentation, and try all of the wonderful, healthy, delicious foods. OR, feel free to come for just part of the day. Just don't miss this wonderful opportunity The event is free, but you do need a reservation (information below.)
Here's what Karen Joshi, President of Women's Ministries for the church, said about this very cool event:
"Because of the tremendous array of booths, speakers and events, we're expecting a large turnout. It's exciting to be able to provide this opportunity to our community."
KEYNOTE PRESENTATION:
Dr. Michael Roizen, the Chief Wellness Officer of the Cleveland Clinic, Chairman of the Wellness Institute at the Cleveland Clinic and four time #1 New York Times bestselling author, will be speaking from 12:45 to 1:45 in the sanctuary in a presentation entitled "Your Beautiful Day".
Dr. Roizen has appeared on The Oprah Winfrey Show (18 times), Today (17 times), 20/20 (3 times), CBN (17 times), CNN, CBS Sunday Morning (3 times), and Good Morning America (25 times).
He is the Chief Wellness Officer of the Cleveland Clinic, Chairman of the Wellness Institute at the Cleveland Clinic and four time #1 New York Times bestselling author.
His book, YOU: The Owner’s Manual, co-written with Health Corps founder Dr. Mehmet Oz, became a #1 New York Times bestseller selling more than 3.2 million hardcover copies worldwide and was the #2 best selling book published in 2005 – even displacing Harry Potter for 35 days as #1 on Amazon and on the Barnes & Noble website!
Some of the wonderful speakers and events scheduled for programs for the Women's Health Fair are:
*Suzanne Hughes of Robinson Memorial will present "The Heart of Women's Health"
*The Alzheimer's Association will offer a one hour program called "Joggin Your Noggin" with tips on what to do today to live a brain healthy lifestyle.
*Jim Porterfield will discuss the importance of "Strength and Balance" to a woman’s health during two different hands-on workshops.
*Chris Rigby will offer a "Meditative Yoga" session twice throughout the day.
*A presentation on "Maintaining Spiritual Health"
*A sampling of healthy and delicious foods from 9:30 to 1:00
In addition, The Cleveland Clinic booth will offer screenings including blood pressure, blood glucose and cholesterol. Other booths include American Cancer Society, Diabetes Association, and speakers listed above will have displays.
THIS EVENT IS FREE but you must have a reservation. THE RESERVATION DEADLINE HAS BEEN EXTENDED. You may reserve your spot by calling the church at 330-650-4048 or emailing Linda Schaefer at HYPERLINK "mailto:LSchaefer@hudsonucc.org" LSchaefer@hudsonucc.org. Be sure you receive registration confirmation number, you must have your number for admission to the event.
The First Congregational Church of Hudson is a member of United Church of Christ and is located northeast of the green in Hudson on Aurora Street. For more information about the church and directions, please call the church main office at 330-650-4048.
Dream a Little Dream. . .
Free Gift
I actually really love the word "gift" and all that it implies.
I loved receiving my birthday gifts this year, and I must say, I am an excellent receiver. You've all been around a less-than-excellent receiver— no fun.
Soon I will shop for birthday gifts for my three nephews who all have August birthdays, and I do love to give presents.
I am certainly anxious to use the "Free Gift!" that came packaged with my new sunblock.
But when it comes to bigger, less material gifts, I find myself sometimes surprisingly unwilling to invest the time and the energy to think about, unwrap, and use what God has given me.
My good friend has this quote in her office:
"When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say 'I used everything you gave me.'"
I love the words, and when I looked it up to see who was quoted, I was expecting a president, a poet, a philosopher. It was said by Erma Bombeck. Erma Bombeck??? A writer.
Okay, God. I hear you.
So I'm at my computer today. And feeling a little bit behind schedule.
Do you acknowledge your God-given gift? I do not, always. Are you afraid of putting yourself out into the universe? I am, often. But I can only assume that God wouldn't have given us gifts to have them sit quietly by. So sing, dance, write, speak, comfort, heal, serve, pray, lead, organize, care, and cook.
Isn't it nice to know that you've been given a gift for no other reason than just because you are YOU? Happy Existence. . . you've received a gift from God.
Driving Miss Lisa
"Why are you entering that address?" she would have asked.
"Because, Kitten, it's where we're going today."
Kitten is the name of my navigation system, or sometimes my whole van, depending on the situation. She was named on her inaugural out-of-town journey to Hilton Head Island in October of 2006 with my friends, Cindy and Lisa. A talking girl mini-van, named after Kit, the car on Knight Rider.
"I don't want to go there," I suspect Kitten would have told me.
"You and me both, Kitty."
I pushed all the buttons to direct us to Euclid and 93rd Street in downtown Cleveland.
"This is not where you go with Lisa," she must have been thinking. "You go to Target and to the schools and to Perkins. Why are you going here? Don't go here."
"I know," I told Kitten in my head. "I know. But we have to. Lisa has cancer. It's my turn to drive her to the clinic for her treatment."
The thought stopped Kitten from asking anymore questions in my head.
And we headed north on the highway.
"Kitten knows where she's going," said Lisa from the passenger seat. "She's a good van."
"She is," I said. Lisa didn't know that Kitten was mad and sad and dragging her wheels. Kitten will never tell her.
We arrived at the clinic without much more chat from Kitten. A turn direction here, a suggestion there. In the parking garage, Kitten went crazy. Destination. Destination! Destination!!!!
"I know, Kitten. We hear you! We're here."
"Thank you, Kitty," said Lisa.
Kitty was quiet. She had brought us safely into the parking garage, and would await further instruction.
Sometimes we find ourselves going places we never thought we would go. Sometimes we need guidance from above, be it a satellite, or something bigger. Sometimes we talk to inanimate objects to blame our inner voices on something other than complete craziness. The small journeys we take within this, our biggest journey, can be overwhelming. And they can be wonderful. To quote my friend Cindy: "This is a marathon, and every day is a tiny race."
Thank you Kitten, for guiding me and Lisa safely that day. And thank you, God, for guiding me and Lisa, and all who surround her, safely that day. And on this, the bigger journey.
Jesus, Take the Wheel. . . of Cheese
I used to think I wasn't a stress eater. I would sometimes say this to myself standing in front of the open pantry.
(pause writing for stale marshmallow)
Maybe after an argument with my husband, I would grab a handful of chocolate chips and march around the house, shoving them into my mouth, but it wasn't BECAUSE of the argument. I would have eaten those anyway.
(quick break for Milk Duds)
The other day, Adam said, "There's a lot of candy in the house all of a sudden."
"It's been a bad week," I said.
He didn't mention it again.
(hang on. . . I forgot I had half a Toblerone behind the napkins)
We did kind of talk about it at our son's baseball game over the weekend.
"Do you want to go out to dinner after?" he asked.
"Yes, I'm starving," I answered.
"What did you do for lunch today?" he asked. Normal conversation.
"I had a Junior Mint," I said.
"A Junior Mint?"
"A BOX of Junior Mints, OKAY?" I said. "I don't require information about every meal you have. Geez."
"Um, I wasn't judging your candy meal. It's just that ONE Junior Mint seemed weird."
Oh.
I thought about what was in the tote next to my folding chair. Raisinets.
I thought about my breakfast. Two small York peppermint patties.
Lord, I really need a vegetable and some cheese. If ever there was a week to discover if I was a stress eater, this would be the week. But what's with all the candy? Am I trying to sweeten up a sour week? Fill a void with things that even I know won't truly fill me? I could just as easily stress eat with a Fiber One bar and some carrots. Milk. Chicken. Whole Wheat Bread.
(You KNOW I'm eating M&M's at just the very idea of stress eating with milk and carrots. I mean really.)
I could use a better system than this. Remind me, God, to turn to you when I am empty. Fill me instead with hope and strength. Replace my stress and worry with the knowledge that I can give all of this to you when I can no longer hold it on my own. And remind me that you will forgive my human weaknesses.
For I do (two squares Hershey Bar) have many.
Multitasking. The Whole Truth.
Anyway, as I was enjoying my driving and lunching, it occurred to me that I am often quite the multitasker—or better put— ingenious user of things and time. It is probably why I manage to stay so organized and on top of things and why our house is always so tidy. Especially the basement storage room. (Just kidding, Adam.)
I'll bet we all find ways to use things and time wisely. Don't we?
I have cleaned an entire bathroom with a baby wipe and a tissue. And I don't even have a baby. I have done this more than once. FINE. It's my favorite way to clean a bathroom, especially when my in-laws are on their way over.
I keep an extra set of all beauty supplies in my car for emergencies. I'm not speaking of the random lip gloss found rolling on the floor of the back set. Quite the contrary! I could take a quick shower and do an up-do if necessary based on the contents of my glove compartment. It's good to be prepared. What defines a beauty emergency? Um. . . I don't know. . rainstorm? Running into old high school friends? I just know that having the tube of concealer in my car has been a real plus, and I actually kissed the tweezers one time. Plus, that giant can of car-hairspray has killed more than one bug in the car. (Note: I do not care for travel-sized hair spray. My hair does not change sizes when it travels. Why is this multitasking? Because I'm getting ready WHILE I'm already going somewhere. (Not while driving, of course, though I will admit to having been caught totally pulling the "make up face" in my rear-view mirror in many a parking lot.)
I prefer to use any and all sprays and aerosols nearby to kill bugs. I just drown them in root-lifter or Lysol. I cross my fingers for a sec that the wall paint won't buckle, and figure that if it does, I'll just blame the stupid bug.
Thanks to modern technology, I can take my walk and answer phone calls at the same time. When I get home, I open my laptop, check my lists, answer emails, cross those emails right of the list, plan a meal, add the ingredients to the list, write a little something, pay some bills, play some Scrabble, and then close the computer having accomplished so many different things. Multitasking at it's finest, and really, as most genuinely defined as it's going to get in my world.
Sometimes it happens by accident. I run into someone at the store and get to say, "Hey, I was meaning to call you to ask about the school picnic. . ." Check. Done. Shopping and picnic meeting. I LOVE IT WHEN THIS HAPPENS.
Yesterday morning, I ran out to dig through the trash can before the garbage truck arrived (don't ask) and since I was already outside in my nightgown, robe, and slippers, I re-bagged the unruly garbage, grabbed the paper, re-staked a plant, gathered seven baseballs and a basketball from the yard, retrieved Abby's flip-flops from the garden, and coiled up the hose. All this, and I wasn't even trying. Or dressed.
I think if you asked any given woman how she multitasks in any given day, the answers would be very different. Some answers might involve "files and texts and presentations" and some might revolve around "engagements and parties and invitations." Many of my friends' lists would include a lot of tasks similar to my own: careful cleaning, serious pest control, morning yard work. I would not be surprised if any and all women somehow incorporate using a baby wipe in their daily work. . . once you get hooked, it's hard to let go.
Today I noticed that a toilet in my home had been, shall we say, "abused and overused?" I sprayed that sucker in Bath-and-Body Works Moonlight Path and let it soak while I vacuumed (okay, okay, I picked up the big crumbs with my fingers) the upstairs hall. Ingenious use of things and time? Maybe, maybe not! But a semi-clean bathroom and a neater hall that carries me in a timely fashion to greater challenges than these? You betcha, any day.
"Ode to May" -- The Annual Posting
For those of you who are "in the know" . . this is a just slightly toned-down version of the original poem, which was written during my mid-May breakdown, 2006. Happy May, everyone!!!
Ode to May
May is busy,
May’s a mess,
May is crazy,
I'm totally stressed.
Lunches, brunches,
Mother's Day.
Choir, baseball,
Teas, ballet.
Gifts and groceries
Checks to write. . .
Washing those uniforms
Late every night.
Signing this form and
Sending in that. . .
Five dozen cookies,
In two minutes flat.
Picnics and parties,
I love them, I do.
But May is a nightmare,
(Between me and you.)
Concerts and programs,
Recitals and shows,
Why all in May?
Are April and February such horrible bad terrible months to plan anything in in this town?
I digress, and I'm sorry,
I won't miss a thing.
I love every second
Of this jam-packed school spring!
But I'm counting the days,
Until next month arrives.
Saying, "Happy June 1!"
Once again, I’ve survived!
C.C., mid-May breakdown, 2006
Peace-of-Mind while Falling Apart :)
I thought maybe the cashier would question my purchase: four full-sized bottles of Purell, three travel-sized Purell bottles, two giant cans of Lysol, one huge bag of Hall's cough drops, and a Three Musketeer's Bar (non-medicinal, just comforting.) The news of the spreading flu virus was everywhere on the news, and I was at the store, buying sanitizer in bulk. I was coughing into my elbow approximately every 17 seconds, a coughing fit that would last far too long, and bring on gasps, wheezes, and tears. But no. . . my purchases were paid for, placed into the bag, and I was sent on my way, hacking loudly. No one said a word. I don't think anyone really wanted to know what was going on with the crazy coughing Lysol lady.
I never, for one moment, actually thought i had the swine flu, the H1N1 virus, the pig flu, or anything more sever than a really bad cough. But I was bound and determined to disinfect my house so that my family would not pick up this bug or spread any others through the home. And all over the news I'm hearing, WASH YOUR HANDS A LOT.
I put a bottle of hand sanitizer in each bathroom, one in the kitchen, and lined up the three little bottles to put in backpacks the next morning. Armed with a can of Lysol, I began walking through the house. The sanitation process started normally enough. Sinks, faucets, bathrooms. Good. Those are very germ-y places. Doorknobs. . . I heard once that doorknobs were a huge way to pass germs. I duly sprayed every doorknob in the house, including outside, inside, closet, basement, and every cabinet knob and drawer pull. I paused to think. Phones. Remotes. Game controllers. Computer mouse! My house was beginning to take on a the look of a dewy morning, and smell like a hospital, but I didn't care. Light switches! I worried for about a tenth of a second if Lysol could hurt the paint or surfaces I was spraying around. . . and decided to continue. Keyboards, lamp switches, and a very light spray over all pillows and mattresses. At one point, I found myself just spraying and walking, spraying and walking.
And this didn't happen just one day. It happened a few times.
Six days later, I am still coughing, even worse, and heading to the doctor this afternoon. I'm probably allergic to disinfectant.
My husband has a head cold and my son is coughing. I think maybe they were sick before I began my giant sanitizing plan, but I can't be sure. And I think maybe, just maybe, the Lysol and Purell were just attempts to acquire peace-of-mind and cleaner hands. . . neither of which are bad, but were perhaps I went a little overboard.
Overboard? Me?
So today, at 2:45, I will trust the doctor to tell me what is wrong, and to fix me. (Please, please, please fix me!) And I will probably apply Purell to all exposed areas of myself after leaving the office, all part of my continued belief in the healing power of peace-of-mind.
Tom Sawyer
Jonathan is going to be painting a fence. Helping to rebuild it, maybe, and then painting it, someday later this spring or early this summer. It's a white, picket fence that lines the path to our front door. The pickets were originally built by my husband, and it's due for some repair. A job that will just about work off in labor the garage window that Jono broke with a baseball and the cell phone that was crushed when it fell out of Jono's shorts."I'm having a nightmare day," he said, when he called me from the neighborhood yard, where he was playing in a giant game of Capture the Flag. "My phone fell out of my pocket. The screen is shattered." His voice was shaky.
We had swept up the glass in the garage just that morning after a rogue baseball had crashed through.
"Nightmare for sure," I agreed. I had answered his call in my car. I was just about to take a walk in the park. I put my head back on the headrest and felt the sun shining on my face. It was a gorgeous day. Why all the broken glass???
I could hear that he was trying to control his emotions. The phone had been a big gift., and Jono is a responsible kid. He doesn't typically break things, or even lose or misplace things. Two giant mistakes in one day? I think we were both treading lightly.
"What do we do?" he said.
"I'm not sure," I answered honestly. "Put your phone away, and we'll talk about it when you get home."
I knew this wasn't the answer he wanted. He wanted resolution, now, so that he could put his mind at ease. But I had absolutely nothing to tell him.
"Am I in trouble?"
"Did you do it on purpose?" I asked him
"No. It fell out of my pocket when I was running."
"Then you aren't in trouble. But we might have to figure this one out together."
I thought about it while I walked around the lake. The phone should have been in its case. Better, the phone should have been tucked in his sweatshirt and nowhere near the running boys (and girls.) And as far as the broken window? Both Adam and I had come quickly to the conclusion that for as many years as Jono has played baseball, it's a wonder that this hadn't happened sooner. Not that we were happy about it, but accidents happen. I knew my conscience-heavy son was, at this very moment, crazy with worry about our reactions and his responsibilities, and that was okay. I think it's okay to bear some worry and some weight.
I returned from my walk, and Adam and Jono returned, all news of broken cell phones had been. . . well. . . broken.
"This is the worst day of my life," said our son.
"Oh, I hope so," I said.
"Me too," said Adam.
"WHAT???" Jono could not understand our reaction.
"It's not a death, Jono," said Adam. "It's not a tragedy or an illness or even a terrible accident. It's a cell phone. And a window. Things. We're not happy that it happened, but it's fixable. We'll figure it out, and you'll be responsible for big piece of this, but your mom and I are not going to try to take every cent you have. Relax. It's okay."
Then followed a couple of days of teenage angst, waiting for the cell phone appointment (made painstakingly by the teenager himself) to find out the cost of repair or replacing the phone. (Cost: less than anticipated, more than was currently in his wallet
) We are currently awaiting a visit from the Glass Doctor ("Call the Glass Doctor, we'll fix your panes. . . ") to give us an estimate on "fixing the odd shaped window in the garage." By tonight, we'll have a handle on the total damages, but between you and me, it's not looking too bad. Jono shelled out the cold, hard cash for a new, durable case for the replacement phone (repair was not an option.) We'll decide on a fair amount of money he can contribute toward the total now, and leave him a small, eighth-grade cash-cushion.And that's where the fence comes in. A couple of days building and painting the fence in our front yard—I'm not sure if he knows about it yet, our modern day Tom Sawyer. Adam will tell him what he will earn for the job, and that's how Jono can pay what he owes. And in the end, there will be a pretty, white fence standing in the place where he worked in the sunshine with his dad. Jono can mend a broken fence, pay a debt for some broken glass, and someday he will see that broken things don't compare with broken hearts.
But please, God, let that day be far, far away.
Re-entry
Coming back from vacation is difficult. Following Spring Break, my friend sent me a text upon her return that read, "Re-entry hard; be prepared." I've now been home for less than 24 hours, and since I've broken through the Vacation/Real Life barrier, here is what I've noticed:1. Vacation laundry is bad for a number of reasons. First, there is a lot of it. Second, every pair of shorts and every bathing suit is a mean and hateful reminder of the place we just left—a warmer, sandier place. Speaking of that: third, there is unexpected sand. Fourth, I am out of Tide, which is no one's fault but my own.
2. Grocery shopping, which I normally don't mind, is crazy-weird after vacation. Why am I suddenly out of not only the normal perishables, but also Saran Wrap, paper towels, plastic bags of every size, Dixie cups, toothpaste, computer paper, the aforementioned Tide, and every single condiment? What in the heck did we do right before Spring Break? Eat all the mustard and print lots of documents?
3. The Spring Break Detox plan has begun, and I am not happy. Transitioning from seafood by the beach to Slimfast and green tea is not a good addition to the re-entry plan. And my tummy hurts.
4. Unpacking. Bleah.
5. My van, after the 12-hour road trip, is in tip-top shape, clean and fresh, not a crumb in sight. Hahahahahahahahahahaha!
6. I have no idea which suitcase contains my hair dryer, and I can't find Sam's new crocodile T-shirt that he wants to wear to school tomorrow.
7. Hey! Great news. . . I just found the t-shirt, but it's dirty. Which means I have to wash it. Which means I have to unpack all of those crazy grocery bags from the back of my shiny clean van. To find the Tide. And continue washing the vacation laundry. Which will bring back memories. Of a warmer sandier place. . .
But on the very, very, bright side, tonight when I am tired from the re-entry, I will sleep in my own bed, rested from the vacation, grateful to have had the days with my family. I will wake to a partially stocked kitchen, and just enough clean laundry folded and ready to go, crocodile shirt included. Re-entry is really not that much different from a normal day; it just has a handful of well-traveled sand thrown in for good measure
Lockstep With My Life
Lockstep. What does this mean to you? What people, songs, books or movies or are lockstep with your life? Who knows you well enough to fall into step right beside you, walk with you, never missing a beat? What song can play the soundtrack of your life right now? When you were growing up? When you were newly married? What movie can you identify with? What book can you turn to again and again because you read it at a time in your life when you needed the words to help you grow?
I picture myself doing the "wizard skip" (you know, the Yellow Brick Road skip) down a high school hallway with my best friend Lynn. A true definition of "lockstep," physically representing the closeness that we had. Now, our friendship is defined by phone calls and emails that are dotted with other touch points, other memories and phrases that remind us how easily we can fall back into that place of intimacy. She is lockstep with my life, the big picture. She knows the whole story.
Now, there are others, who know the daily moments, who don't call before 8:12 A.M. because they know I am still outside waiting for Sam's bus, and who know that on Wednesday mornings I have choir rehearsals. Lisa knows to order me a diet Coke AND a water (no lemon) at lunch, and Cindy knows that the first Friday of the month I have writer's group. When Beth texts me at just the right moment with just the right words (usually right before I was going to call her) that's lockstep with my life.
James Taylor songs ("Only One,") Billy Joel tunes ("Scenes from an Italian Restaurant,") and nearly every 80's song defined me at one point or another (but mostly "Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Leppard.) There are books that I truly love (The Time Traveler's Wife, Jane Eyre, The Many Lives and Secret Sorrows of Josephine B.) and movies that capture me with a single scene, again and again ("Love, Actually" and "Notting Hill.") (Oh, and "Top Gun" and "Sleepless in Seattle" and "When Harry Met Sally," of course.)
My husband, my children, my parents, my brothers. . . all lockstep with my life for sure. That's a given. Some came earlier, some came later. But whatever the time frame, they have been right there with me on this journey, knowing me and loving me along the way. And each of THEM came complete with songs, and books and movies (think Green Eggs and Ham, The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, "Viva La Vida," "Centerfold," "You Light up my Life," and "Suddenly I See," and the truly unforgettable eighties hit, "Waiting for a Star to Fall," by Boy Meets Girl.)
What is lockstep to your life? And who? And why? Take a step back, and look at the steps that you're making, and at the things and people that make this journey so uniquely yours. You may find it easier to take your next step when you remember that there are people locked-in right beside you, enjoying your journey, even singing along to the soundtrack that you have chosen.
The Sanity Prayer
The Sanity Prayer
God grant me the sanity
to answer one more question today;
courage to change the water in the fishbowl;
and wisdom to know when to lock the door of the bathroom and call it a day.
—Taken respectfully from "The Serenity Prayer by Reinhold Niebuhr
Dear Lord,
Please guide me as I make my way through the rest of this evening. The dinner is half-finished on the stove, and "Jon and Kate + Eight" is blaring in the background (but when isn't it, really?) and I know that I should be thinking, "If Kate can do it with EIGHT children, well, then my day should be CAKE!" But honestly? That show bugs me. Just the show, Lord. I'm sure the people are lovely.
Lord, lighten my hands as I reach for one more pair of dirty socks (I know I just put these in the drawer yesterday) and toss them into the hamper that I SWORE I would not carry to the laundry room now that there are four other people in this house capable of carrying their own hampers downstairs. But Lord, let me try to carry their loads with love. I do love them, Lord, but I can't find it in my heart today to love the dirty jeans.
Open my heart to the possibility that not everyone in my home likes onions, and maybe it's my fault that I sautéed them with the meat for the enchiladas this evening. Forgive me for playing hide-and-seek with this tiny, white vegetable, God. It was really just for flavoring. I seek your presence at the table as we eat; open THEIR hearts and mouths to the idea of trying something NEW. Now there's an idea . . . sorry for that sarcasm, Lord. But you do know me, inside and out.
Sam is asking me a lot of questions tonight, Lord. Please, please, please grant me patience. I want to stop everything and have every answer, but I just don't have it in me. Sometimes I do. Most times I do. Tonight I don't. Later we will read a book and relax . . . Lord, just let me get there.
Remind me, Lord, in the moments when I find myself locked in the upstairs hall bathroom because there is nowhere else in this whole house to just find FIVE SOLID MINUTES OF PRIVACY, that I have created this tiny little haven for my children. When I was "relaxing" on the rug in front of the toilet, I studied the "map of the world" shower curtain, and suddenly realized how Sam knew that Paraguay was near Chile. Or, rather, how either of those two countries even existed in his crazy little mind. It was here, too, that I did consider having a shot of NyQuil for dinner. Thank you, Lord, for guiding me away from that decision. NyQuil is good for the sick. Not just for the overtired and cranky. And, after five minutes of "peace," the voices of the children began calling. "Mom? Where's Mom? Has anyone seen Mom?" I brushed the rug fibers off of my yoga pants and came out of hiding. Those voices do have power, for sure.
However, Kate's voice from the TV is really starting to rub me wrong. Doesn't she ever find herself on the bathroom floor? Probably not.
I pray for motivation. Can we just get this out there (as I cook enchiladas?) I am weary, Lord, of the focus and attention paid to weight loss and outer beauty. Do I want it? Oh, yeah. You betcha. But can I make it the central part of my life? Never. I pray for my daughter who already sees herself through the eyes of others. . . who may already view herself in the wrong light. Let me be a good example of health and beauty to her, Lord. Let me be strong enough for us both against the comparisons of others. For one day, let me not stress about every single bite I eat.
Lord, as my husband travels home from a one-day trip in Arkansas, bless the pilot and all those he travels with. I'm sure it was a busy day. I hope he likes onions in his enchiladas.
Thank you, Lord, for helping me to find the words this past week as we struggled through some difficult conversations with our children.
Help me to draw a deep breath at some point today. One child home sick, another with doctor's appointment, one with an evening baseball clinic, a basement storeroom to clean, a novel to write. . .
I hope you have nothing else to do tonight, Lord, because that's a long list. I hope you find it helpful that it's in writing.
And with that, I shall take a deep breath, a breath I already feel coming easier. Dinner is nearly finished now, and Sam is playing quietly. The TV is off. Lord, thank you for listening; obviously, you were. Love, Christy
Swingers
The boys in my house swing things. Real things, like golf clubs and baseball bats. If there are no clubs or bats around, they swing whatever is available. A broom, a yardstick, a fork, maybe a paint roller extension handle. Whatever. Today, I found Jono practicing his swing with a pair of scissors in his hand. "Don't swing with scissors," I cried, and then I stopped myself. A mother can only scream so many stupid clichés. Jono told me that he had been working on his swing earlier, with the plunger, up in my bathroom, which explains why I had found the plunger rolled halfway across the bathroom floor. It had been masquerading as a bat, and been thrown down in the "dugout." There is a dent in the ceiling of my bedroom, courtesy of some club, iron, or wood. I really have no idea. I just know that when I found it, there was a look of complete sheepishness on Adam's face, with no other explanation than the club dangling in his hand. There have been holes in the basement wall that NO ONE will claim, but I'm not completely ruling out my husband, who is the biggest swinger of them all. He's trying to blame our 7-year old. That's low.
When we arrive home from anywhere, neither my husband or my son comes inside. They remain outside, rain, sleet or snow, swinging things. Sometimes, they swing nothing, and just stand on the driveway in perpetual swinging motion, invisible club or bat in hand.
This shouldn't annoy me, and often it doesn't. Sometimes it does.
"Where is your dad?" I will say? If he is nowhere to be found, he is on the driveway, swinging a club, real or virtual.
In my family room, against the back wall, there are always putters. Under the chair in the corner, there are always balls. Every single morning of my life, I put them in the garage, and every single evening, they are back, sometimes complete with head covers. Adam has been away for five days, so I've been five days putter-free. It's been like a Christmas miracle.
Until the swinging plunger, of course.
Adam will return home tonight, from a swinging. . . I mean, golf. . . trip. You can bet your life on the following fact: he will arrive home, happy and relaxed, thrilled to see us, having had a wonderful time, grateful for my support. I will be in the family room, and he will put down his suitcase, and stand before me, swinging nothing, as he tells me all about it.
It will be nice to have him home.
A Matter of Faith
I took a few minutes to think about why I was struggling with my faith. What was I needing, missing, wanting? For one, there are some women and fellowship that I truly miss. Our children have grown, our circles have changed, our lives are different. Two, I am not as involved at church as I have been in past years. Well, I certainly brought that one on myself, now, didn't I? Saying "no, thank you" to several committees, so as to not repeat a year of complete volunteer craziness. But now I find myself in the building much less. Hmm. I really like that building. Three, I'm not as faithful with Sunday attendance. There are plenty of Sundays that I sing in the choir, or one of my children sings, but still. . . there are Sundays that come and go and we don't get to church. Four, support. I miss the support I once had by being a part of a circle, a prayer chain. When I needed support recently, I didn't know where to turn, so I turned inward. People are not mind-readers, though I kind of hoped they were.
I reflected on my list. And I wondered—am I really struggling with my faith, or is my faith struggling with me? Or is it "faith" at all? My relationship with God is pretty good. I pray, I believe, I love. So maybe it's not faith that's at the heart of this; maybe I'm just missing the things that can support my faith, things that can support ME in my faith.
I will be attending a women's mission project soon, and I have reached out to some old friends in the hopes of reconnecting. A journey can be long, and sometimes there are detours. In the meantime, let me know if you have any ideas for a day trip. . .
Snow Day?
This is one of those days that I am SURE I am superb at my job. Why? Because I managed to send three children to school, warm and fed (dressed for a trip to the Arctic Circle) prepared to be educated and enriched. I am also completely sure that every mom and teacher in my town is rock star. There were 237 school closings in Northeastern Ohio today. We were open. And you know what? That's okay, because if the cold weather and snow continue, school will likely be closed soon enough.So for all of us who woke this morning and watched the closings roll across the TV, who listened to the children whine and beg, who made hot chocolate for breakfast and begged our 8th-grade sons to wear scarves, BRAVO! For those of us who pulled hats and boots over our pajamas and drove to the bus stop, who dug through the piles to find matching mittens, who made thermos lunches and promised to go to Target and buy sleds, YAY FOR YOU!
For those of us who took phone calls from husbands in Phoenix, where it is 60 degrees, for anyone whose car slid all over the icy road, for parents who helped find violins, snacks, homework, snow pants, projects, show-and-tell, glue sticks and gym clothes and THEN stuffed it all into a backpack and somehow managed to slide it over the shoulders of a super-stuffed winter parka. . .GREAT JOB!
For the snow plow guys who cleared my driveway at 3:00 AM while I was sleeping in my warm bed. . . thank you, thank you, thank you! Because of you, I could leave my house this morning. (But why would I? It's so cold my thermometer is registering "—" degrees.)
For the teachers, who did not get a snow day either, thank you! You will be putting up with snow pants, giant coats, boots, slick hallways, and cranky children who were up late, banking on a day off. I appreciate you!
And for all of the children who participated in the rituals last night. Try, try, again! Flush the ice cubes, flush the ice cream! Wear your jammies inside out, and text snowflakes to your friends. It's supposed to be REALLY cold tomorrow. I hear it could be a snow day. . .
Around the Table
This year, around my own table, we had six friends for dinner one night. On Christmas Day, we had seven. For New Year's dinner, we were expecting my parents, and then I received a text from my youngest brother:
"Can you fit 3 more around your table?"
Can I fit three more?
I answered his text with 10 smileys and 17 exclamation points.
This was an irregular holiday. We were unable to travel, but I quickly found that if I served it, they would come.
Our friends were here for an informal Christmas dinner before the holidays. We ate, we drank wine, we laughed and talked and my husband toasted our guests, saying there was no where else he would rather be. It's good to have those kinds of nights to start the season, I think. My table seats eight people comfortably, and the room was warm and accommodating. I like the color, there are things in the room that make me happy, not the least of which were the people.
When we first moved into the house in 1996, we had the table, which has been passed down to me from my parents, but we had no chairs. The table lived in the dining room for three years, next to the china cabinet, which was the first piece of furniture that Adam and I had ever purchased together (I still adore the cabinet's unique drawers and narrow shelves.) The room was undecorated. Then we found (ahem. . . could afford) chairs. We chose a deep green paint called Leap Frog, a striped rug, a big clock, black wood letters that spell, "ENJOY."
On Christmas Day, Adam's parents arrived in the afternoon bearing gifts and pots and baskets. The table was set for seven, but six of us were eating. Roasted pork, but turkey, too, for those of us not allergic! My in-laws brought the entire meal, prepared, and served it at our table. My son was just home from the hospital, so he slept on the couch while we ate. My husband and I were tired. We were so grateful for this meal, for this day, for the chance to sit and eat with family, in our home, on Christmas. Sam said grace. It was a good meal around that table, that day.
I asked Adam recently if we should refinish the table.
"It's looking a little worn," I said. It never looked that way in my parents' house. It wasn't their main table, but even though it is ours, I try to be careful
His reaction to my family heirloom surprised me.
"Don't touch the table. It's beautiful. You would hate to change the color or the finish. There is nothing wrong with a little imperfection."
When I clean it, I oil it lightly, and the imperfections glisten. (Note to self: let your imperfections shine.)
A few days after Christmas, we met my middle brother, my sister-in-law, and my nieces and nephews at a nearby Bob Evans off of 1-71. They were traveling south to Cincinnati, and since we couldn't make the whole trip, we decided to meet for a brunch and Christmas gift exchange on the road. We took up no less than 5 booths, including coats, gifts, booster seats, kids, and adults. We were happy to see each other, but sad when we had to say our good-byes in the parking lot. (And again, I thank them for somehow stuffing my box of gifts into their Trailblazer to deliver on my behalf!) Was it the perfect Christmas gathering? Maybe not. But for an hour, we were gathered around a few tables in the restaurant. There was joyous gift giving and receiving. We shared pancakes and eggs, coffee and diet Coke. It was a memory made, that's for sure.
On New Year's Day, my parents arrived, overflowing with bright Christmas bags and boxes . There were piles of Christmas cookies made by my aunt, gifts from family, and my mom's homemade fudge. Soon after, I heard the jingle of the sleigh bells that hang on the door and my brother and sister-in-law had arrived with my new nephew, just 3 weeks old. To meet and hold my newest nephew, when I thought I would have to wait a few more weeks, was such a blessing on this crazy holiday. The table was set for nine. My husband at one end, my dad at the other. My children, my mom, my brother, his beautiful wife. I was so grateful that they had come to us, so happy to have them around our table. When the baby cried, I held him through the meal
, so all ten of us were at the table. I offered the toast that evening. To new babies, to my healthy oldest baby, to family, to the new year, and to having everyone I loved around a table this season.
Facebook over 40
Until Thanksgiving, when a friend of mine asked if I had a Facebook account.
"I think I might," I said, "but I don't use it. I opened it to see if Jono's friends were using Facebook."
"Jono's friends aren't using it," she said, "but all of our friends are. Go on tonight and see."
"Huh," I said, noncommittally. I remained uninterested. I had been bored with the concept when I had first perused the website. I might take a look, I thought. I might not.
That night, I was up late. I pulled out my laptop and searched "Facebook." I logged in, guessing at my password. I was right. There I was. . . A blue portrait head representing me on my profile. Christy Chafe. Nothing special about her. But. . . what was this?
"You have nine friend requests."
Now, that's kind of fun. . . I clicked on the requests. . . Diana from Book Club, Anna-Liisa, who had mentioned Facebook just this afternoon, a couple of my brother's friends, some high school friends. I clicked to accept the requests. Confirm, confirm, confirm, confirm. Suddenly, I could access my new (old!) friends' profile pages on Facebook, and I was stunned at what I found. There were photos and conversations and quizzes and lists of favorite things. Hey. . . I have favorite things, too. I started to panic. My profile was so blank, and it had been for six months. And these friend requests had been ignored, just sitting there, ignored. Quickly, I downloaded a picture to replace the blue Facebook head on my page. I updated my interests, my education background, my favorite quotes, books, movies, music, and activities. I breathed a giant social-networking-sigh of relief. I was not a blank profile. I was a Facebook Someone. I searched friends and invited them to be my Facebook Friends. I took some Facebook quizzes. I emailed people and added "Music I Like" to my profile. What if someone searched my page and wanted to know my favorite song? I certainly didn't want to disappoint them. By 3:00 A.M. I was Facebook Fluent, and I had an up-and-running profile. I was as addicted as I could possibly be.
There are those that are less than enamored. Those that would consider Facebook a time-waster. I'm sure, to some degree, that this could be true. However, after my major overdose on that first night, I now enjoy checking my profile in the late evenings. I am still completely amazed when someone from grade school or high school finds me and we re-connect. I get a kick when I read that "Rayo is a fan of Skyline Chili, " or "Jimmy and his baby are watching the Bengals and both are crying." On Facebook, it is totally fine for you to join a fan club of a food, a movie, a person, a cartoon, a piece of furniture, a cloud formation, or a bad smell. Where else can you send virtual gifts, virtual snowballs, virtual elves, gnomes, buttons, bumper stickers, fish, plants, hugs, kisses or drinks to your friends? Some of these virtual operations exist to save the planet, fund a charity, raise awareness, or just promote feel-goodness, and truly, I think it all works. I love opening my account and seeing my "notifications" blinking: two friend requests, one snowball request, two Christmas gifts. That doesn't happen in real life. And it might not happen on Facebook in the junior high set. It happens on Facebook over 40.
"Who do you talk to on Facebook," asked my son.
"Mrs. Edwards," I said.
"You talk to her everyday anyway."
True enough.
During the election, Facebook offered political outlets. I could decorate my profile with "yard signs" for my choice of candidates. Facebook members could join groups in support of (or against) candidates and issues. I could attend "Facebook Election Day" and if I wanted to announce for whom I had voted, and when I had voted, I could. Election day was tracked on Facebook all day.
My parents are now on Facebook. (As my brother questioned, "Is that even allowed?!) Lisa is Facebook friends with my parents. My brothers are both friends with Lisa. Lisa, Cindy, and I are all friends. We are all also friends with Dee and Eve. Cindy just "friended" my parents. Lynn, my best friend from second grade just joined Facebook and all of our high school friends are on and chatting again, together. Madeira High School, Class of 1986—fan of Friendly's Restaurant? I think so.
Is Facebook a bit of an escape? Yes. But also, I believe it is a real vehicle for reconnecting with my past. Friends are providing me with memories and stories and laughs that bring me moments of great joy, that remind me of bits of myself that I might of forgotten, or bits of themselves that I once really enjoyed and am so glad to remember. I have found (or been found by) theater friends, college friends, old neighbors. One of the most lovely connections have been some family members that live so far away that I used to only see them every few years. Now we chat every few days.
On Facebook, my favorite feature is the "update your status." It might say, "Christy is writing a blog," or "Lisa is contemplating going to the gym." It gives me a little snippet into the lives of my friends and family. I have heard of people who update far too often. . . like, "So-and-so is wondering how that lady got her parking space," and then, "So-and-so is not really happy with her parking space." I don't think status updates are meant to be updated every 6 seconds, but on Facebook, to each her own.
If I had to create a status update right now, it would read like this: "Christy really enjoys Facebook. If Jono and his friends are on Facebook she would never know. She is too busy playing with her friends."
Trick-or-Treat?
Thanks to the ring tone, I have tricky on the brain. Things that are tricky. . .
It's tricky for me to avoid Christmas music until the day after Thanksgiving, which is just a personal goal. On that Friday, I start listening to carols non-stop in my car. No more news, no more eighties' tunes, just carols of all kinds, all the time. When I wrap presents, carols. When I bake, carols. But I don't care for hearing Christmas music before Thanksgiving. Certainly not in October.
Cornflake wreath cookies are tricky. Marshmallows, green food coloring, butter, and red hots (which I can never find) are sticky and messy, and at any other time of year would probably not go together very well. But it's a favorite cookie at my house, so I lay out the wax paper and make them. Sometimes I give up on the wreath shapes all together and make blobs which I call "holly," because honestly, it's just too hard. Tricky. Or rather, sticky.
I would guess that it could be tricky to have a live Nativity scene on the town square. Not just to find the willing participants and the agreeable animals on a day that was dipping below 20 degrees, but there's that question people could ask. . . a Nativity scene on public property? I didn't participate in the scene, but even getting my family dressed warmly enough to get in the car for a drive-by nativity viewing took some doing. Mittens, hats, hot drinks, coats, scarves and boots. Can we see the donkey from the car? Is Bella an angel at 4:00? What do people think of the Nativity scene by the clock tower? It could all be a little tricky.
There are gift exchanges when I might have overspent, under spent, thought too much, or didn't think enough. There is a running list on my counter that is completed every day. Until it isn't. Not to mention that life goes on while Christmas happens. Yesterday, scribbled on top of my master Christmas Gift-And-To-Do List were the following items: leotard, fishnet tights, Sharpie markers, call orthodontist, carrots, pay bills. [Note: the leotard and fishnet tights are for my daughter's tap class, lest you get any ideas about my Christmas Eve church attire.]
When shopping with my husband over the weekend, he nearly rained on my very festive Christmas parade with some tricky/icky/sticky questions. "Why is there is so much spending for just one moment?" We questioned our list for a little while before continuing. And then he asked me this: "Are there any gifts that you have received that you look back on and really remember?" We talked about certain gifts given, special gifts received, and why they were meaningful. It was a conversation that tricked us both; it went in a really good direction after nearly going poorly. We ended up picking some really special gifts that day—I love it when we trick ourselves.
I think there are just moments, you know? Moments of "oh no it's December 10 and I haven't baked anything and I need to wrap and I still have some gifts to buy and what should I buy for Adam's assistant and I totally forgot about the sprinkles and how much do I tip my hair stylist at Christmas and why won't that one tree outside JUST STAY LIT?????" Moments like this can trip this girl up, send her over the Christmas edge. So now I will pause and take a moment to break it all down. There are plenty of days left to bake, and the closer it gets to Christmas, the fresher it will all be. I can Google the "appropriate" tip amount for a stylist, and if it's not a comfortable amount, I will do what I normally do and add a plate of cookies that I just baked. I can pick up some sprinkles at Drug Mart, or not. It's really okay either way. (It's not okay; I'll be going to Drug Mart.) I can organize all of my wrapping supplies and wrap gifts on my free afternoons. I actually have many. I also have an 11-year old daughter who loves to wrap and bake. [Note to self: when things are tricky, do not overlook the elves who live in your own house.] I can shop for Adam's assistant online and have the gift sent to his office, or turn this item over to him if I am stumped.
See? That wasn't so difficult. And the rewards that come from the Christmas preparation are sweet. Avoiding the carols in October and most of November makes "Joy to the World" seem all the more majestic when it plays at full volume in December. The cornflake wreaths are delicious and chewy. Shopping is always fun and frantic and crazy-nuts, but I love it, and giving the gifts is just what I have always been taught: better than receiving. And believe it or not. . . even after those very tricky moments of panic, those un-lit lights and unanswered questions and un-found sprinkles, Christmas still manages to arrive and always would have, without anyone else's list, or anyone else's plan. And that. . . is the real treat.
Thanksgiving. . .Second Helping
A re-post of the essay that started it all. . .
My husband is allergic to poultry. A unique and difficult, but not unbearable affliction most times of the year, but a tricky one to live with in the month of November. When the topic first comes up in conversation, people are usually very interested. “Chicken?” they ask? “Duck? Goose?” Yes. Chicken, duck and goose, and anything else that flies. “Eggs?” No. Not eggs, but he doesn't like them. If you ask me, this really shouldn’t be an option when your choices are limited to begin with, but all those years ago at the allergist when Adam was six, nobody thought to ask me.
So every year, the week of Thanksgiving arrives, and everyone in my house is getting ready for our annual trek to
Before I continue with my Thanksgiving story, I need to share with you that many of my mother’s relatives are Jews. I grew up going to Bar Mitzvahs, Bat Mitzvahs, and occasionally attending Hebrew school with my cousin Julie. I remember Julie’s Bat Mitzvah very well because I was 13, too. A 13-year-old not-quite-confirmed, not-yet-baptized girl watching Julie complete this rite of passage. But what I remember most is the pink-and-white reception that followed, spending the night, and watching her open the gifts and the cards and the money and thinking. . . I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to be a Jew. But it was not meant to be, and a few months later I completed my own confirmation, following a quickie baptism that same morning, next to the boy of my dreams. Tom Lucky. I was certain that the fact that Tom Lucky and I were being baptized together on confirmation day meant that we would be together forever. I mean seriously. . .holy water? If that’s not binding, what is? But some dreams are not meant to be, and so I arrive back at my story, present day, where I am driving in my silver Honda Odyssey with the poultry-allergic, most-certain-man-of-my dreams back home to see my grown-up cousin Julie and all of my relatives for Thanksgiving Day.
And I am driving a pork dinner into the midst of my semi-Jewish family. It’s as if I need to have little signs to stick into all of the dishes. Something like, “Warning!
You may wonder what any of this has to do with why I have chosen The First Congregational Church of Hudson as my church home. Here is a place where I can be true to my faith background. Here, I have freedom to respect and honor the faiths of those that I love, all while worshiping in the way that I choose to worship and serving in the way that I choose to serve. When we were completing our membership class, Adam and I were asked to draw representations of our faith journeys, and to write about our faith backgrounds. This is mine, in a nutshell. (Not a peanut shell, of course!) I know that my faith future is here. This November, and always, I am grateful for and proud of what my church represents and upholds. Christian or Jew, poultry or pork, I know that anyone I love will be accepted through these doors, and this I count among my many blessings.
My youngest brother was married this summer. She’s a teacher, she’s smart, she’s pretty, and they really, really love each other. And, wouldn't you know it, she’s a good Jewish girl. I think she'll be right at home.
Epilogue: I'm happy to report that my sister-in-law, Adi, and my brother, Jimmy, are expecting their first baby at any moment. I would love to write my "new baby" blog over this Thanksgiving break—please hurry, baby! (I know, Jimmy, I know. . . I'll try to stop pressuring the unborn baby!) We have also recently discovered that our youngest son, Sam, is allergic to cashews, peanuts, and all tree-nuts. I'll be serving air and water for Christmas dinner.
Why Do First Graders Ask Such Good Questions?
"Do you believe that anything is possible?" called Sam, from the family room.
I was unloading the dishwasher and simultaneously cutting big marshmallows into small marshmallows with wet scissors for Sam's hot chocolate. His wet , snowy clothes were already spinning in the dryer, and dinner was nearly finished. Did I believe anything was possible? You betcha.
"Sure, Sam," I called back.
"Is it true?"
"Is what true?"
"That anything is possible?"
Honestly, where's an easy question when you need one? Is it TRUE??? I had no answer. I was so happy with the way the evening was going that I certainly wasn't going to stomp on his very fair question with a factual response, like, "No Sam, it's not true. It's not possible for you to grow wings and fly. A blue horse will never fall out of the sky." Not to mention the fact that we all know that if I did say these things, Sam most certainly would sprout wings, and a blue horse would drop directly from Heaven, just to prove me wrong. It's just the way it works.
Is it true?
We say it all the time. A quick, "Anything's possible!" tossed into a conversation about the world, about our family, about our faith, about our friends, our sports teams, our own goals, our own dreams. It's one of those phrases that we hear so many times that we don't even really think about what the words mean.
"Hey, Christy, are you going to run today?"
"Anything's possible!" (sarcastic)
Can we find a path to peace in the world?
Anything's possible. . . (hopeful)
"I wonder if this was the answer to that prayer I've been praying?"
"[With God] anything's possible. . . " (faithful)
I wish I had thought to ask Sam where he heard the expression. What was he hoping for the possibility OF? It will all make for good breakfast conversation tomorrow.
Any. Thing. Is. Possible. What a hopeful string of words! So I finally told Sam, yes. It's true. Anything is possible.
And if a blue horse falls from the sky anytime soon, don't say you haven't been warned.
"With God all things are possible."
Matthew 19:26
*This verse is also the state motto of Ohio. I can't wait to tell Sam in the morning!
All in a Day's Work
But today was my very first day of trying to work at home. With no one in the house except me, I tried to calm my Inner Momness and be a writer. While I write all the time, it is often with my laptop propped on my knees, in bed, watching a TiVo of "Grey's Anatomy", or in the family room with Sunday afternoon football chaos (which I love) as background noise. Today I had a freelance assignment, one of my first few since putting it out there to the universe that I was available for putting the word to the page, and I really needed to write.
The kids were off to school, the kitchen table was cleared of Count Chocula and all school papers, and I prepare my space. Laptop, charger, legal pad, pens, notes, phone, cell phone. I got a drink and a cup of ice, so I could sit for a great length of time and not disturb myself. I consult my iHome for music to write by. I find myself temporarily sidetracked as I need to sing the entire version of David Archuleta's "Imagine" in my kitchen as loud as humanly possible. I was probably just clearing my head. And the need to sing the next two songs, which I performed Broadway style with some dance moves by the sink, simply replaced my morning stretch. Listen, if I'm going to work from home today, I need to prepare my space and my body. Certainly, people going into an actual office get themselves ready. Certainly.
I look down. I'm in my worst jeans, my gray PEACE shirt, and my fuzzy clogs. My hair is ugly and held back by one of Abby's sparkley barrettes. Perfect. Just "off" enough for the "she's a crazy writer" look I was going for. Okay, I wasn't really going for it, but by total accident and lack of clean laundry, I arrived at a style I will from this point forward call "pretend starving artist."
My look is in nice contrast to my recently redone kitchen, but that's really beside the point.
The music is too loud, and I can't write when there are lyrics. The words themselves aren't distracting me from my craft, but now I really want to sing again. I get up and switch to my "classical" playlist.
I sit down and page through my notes for this job. I jot a few things down, and open a new document to start the creative process.
I'm hungry.
In the kitchen cabinet right next to the stove, there is a half-pound bag of M&M's. I frequently mix them in with snack mixes for the kids' school snacks. (Note: Hoping to make your kids' "healthy snack" a little less healthy? Throw in a handful of M&M's.) In the family room, on the coffee table, there is a giant glass pumpkin full of candy corn. Sometimes I like to eat M&M's and candy corn together, in the same bite, so now I have a problem. It's not that I'm really supposed to be writing. It's that I don't know which candy to grab first.
Working from home is nothing like I thought it would be. I have heard tell of people being sidetracked by doing loads of laundry, taking phone calls, cleaning the house. I cannot even begin to tell you how very, very little these things are calling to me.
I really like my set up at the kitchen table.
It could use a candle. You know, for peace of mind, and good energy. I go to the dining room to find one, but all of the wax has melted over the wick of the McIntosh Apple candle that would have completed my new workspace. I find a substitute, Gardenia, (a little strong) but now I can't find matches. So I find a birthday candle in my kitchen junk drawer, light it on my gas stove burner, light my candle, bring it to my table, and sit back down. So much better.
I write the first paragraph of the assignment. This is going very well. It feels good to have people in the outside world, the world where I was not quite sure if I would measure up, send me notes and information and expect me to piece them all together and write something sensible. I owe it to them to work hard, and so I do. For a good, long, productive time. Until my e-mail inbox beeps. I click over. . . it could be more information for the article.
"Message from Facebook: Sarah has written on your Facebook page." I can look at that later. Well, I could just take a quick look in case she found our old friend Mindy from college or to see if she has posted something funny since I last looked. . . you know. . . this morning. Quick Facebook break. No different than a coffee break, really. Or a lunch break, which I am absolutely not going to take, thanks to the convenient M&M cabinet.
At the end of this workday, I do finish the whole assignment, and I even find time to glance out of the window a few times to enjoy the sunshine. (Okay, I went outside and sat on the deck and read a magazine, and I might have fallen asleep for just one minute, but it was 70 degrees and I was tired!) The point is this. I found myself exceedingly refreshed, and refreshingly grateful, for both the work and the space. For the gift of being able to stay in this place that I love while I do what I love. And for the freedom to sing in my kitchen, have a healthy snack break, and take a little nap along the way? Now, THAT is all in a day's work.
Milk Duds for Breakfast
Yep, Milk Duds for breakfast. That's pretty much what's going on at my house. Hope you all had a nice Halloween!
Lay My Eyes on You
I'm lucky, though, those times when I do go out of town. My husband, Adam, takes on the weekend with gusto. There are hot dog roasts and Target excursions and bike rides. I always come home to a tidy house, and I know they have all had a good time during my absence. It's a nice bonus, this non-worry about my family. This particular Mothership can come and go from her planet with a fair amount of ease. Re-entry is easy.
I was on a girls' only shopping trip in Michigan this weekend, fully enjoying the time with my mother and sister-in-law. I called home from the aisle of a shoe store, one foot in a silver ballet-style flat (too big, darn it) and my eyes prowling for other sizes. Called home, I did, for my evening update. Everything was great, they were watching The Pink Panther, and Sam had thrown-up a couple of times.
"Oh. . ." I said.
"He's fine," said Adam. "Bathed, and on the couch. Totally good."
"Okay."
At this point, I'm 100% sure that he is fine. Not true. I'm 95% sure that he is fine, since the last time that Sam threw-up, we ended up in the ER because Sam was having a full anaphylactic reaction to a cashew. But that's not the case tonight, I'm sure. I'm pretty sure.
"He doesn't have a rash?" I ask.
"No rash. I would have seen it in the tub."
I hang up, after "good-nights" all around, and we finished up in the shoe store.
Back at the hotel, I tried to manage the inner voices battling inside me. Call. Don't call. Call. Don't call. Trust. Trust. Trust. Call. Call. Call. Don't Call. Do. Not. Call.
I called.
Because , you see, I couldn't lay my eyes on Sam, and if I had been home, I would have really, really needed to lay my eyes on him before bed.
Adam answers, and I start speaking immediately.
"Hey, this is so not about you it's totally me but I just need you to check Sam's body before you go to sleep just in case he gets a rash or something. Then maybe you might want to keep your door open tonight, or let him sleep with you. You know, the sick-at-night thing is hard, but I'm sure you've got it covered. . . " I sigh.
"I will check him again," said Adam, patiently, "I promise."
"Okay," I breathed. "Can I speak to Abby?"
And I subversively coached my 11-year old daughter to check Sam, too.
We hung up again, and though I couldn't actually lay my eyes on my husband, I was pretty sure he might have been shaking his head in disbelief (no, make that TOTAL belief) at my phone call. But understanding, too, that this was just part of the job. Innate. Like waking up in the middle of the night already halfway down the hall because someone had surely called me, or cried out, but who? And then hearing it again, softly, validating the mothersense that just IS. Mothersense crosses lines. It crosses state lines. It has nothing to do with trust, only with love, of all parties involved.
Sam was better the next day, and the rest of the weekend was uneventful, and quite fun, on all sides.
Two days later, I arrived home to a quiet house. My family was still at dinner. I brought in my suitcase, and my pillow, and even unpacked a little. I looked out the window. No headlights yet, in the dark night. Looking around, there was evidence of a recent bonfire outside, newly made crafts, and freshly bought snacks. Laundry had been done, and the beds were made. A quick check out the window. . . no car coming down the street yet. I text my son. "When R U all coming home 2 me?" He answers, "We are 2 minutes away. When did you get home, Mothership?" I smile, and think that two minutes is still a long time. Because I really, really need to lay my eyes on them.
Be Still
"Be still, and know that I am God."
Psalm 46:10
I was thinking today that we can really and truly feel all of the prayers flying directly from Hudson, OH, to Pennsylvania. (Joining with those prayers from all over.) But that's not true. Our prayers go to God. What we must be feeling is the love. I hope they feel it, too.
Peggy Noonan's Remarkable Words OR Red Friends, Blue Friends, Part II
She is currently a columnist for The Wall Street Journal and a frequent commentator on broadcast and cable television, but she was also a primary speech writer and Special Assistant to President Reagan. Later, Peggy Noonan coined many terms made famous by then-Vice President George H.W. Bush, including "a thousand points of light," and "a kinder, gentler nation." She is famous for the "Read my lips; no new taxes" speech that Bush gave when accepting his nomination in 1988. Peggy Noonan is a Reagan-conservative.
My friends know that I don't shy away from a political conversation. I love an informed discussion. Tell me what draws you to the polls, tell me your passion, tell me your fears, tell me your reasons, just don't disparage mine along the conversational journey. This is what makes for a great political discussion. Not a "forward" to my e-mail address, not a fight, not an exchange of unsupported facts. Tell me your heart; I'll tell you mine.
So anyway, I was listening to Peggy Noonan being interviewed on XM Radio this morning. (This particular interviewer was frustrating to the point that I ended up eventually changing the station. This isn't surprising; I think we can all agree that this election season has gotten draining. It's exhausting, sometimes, just to listen anymore.)
But before I pressed the button to flip to the 80's station, Peggy Noonan said these remarkable words:
"We can disagree and still assume good faith."
Her words have stuck with me all day, perhaps because I hope people always assume the best of me. In these last twenty days before the elections, in these discussions and debates and conversations, stand up for your beliefs, by all means. It never feels good to betray your own truth, so be strong when you speak your mind and state your convictions. (I mean really, if you're going to speak, know your facts and speak them well!) But when you are listening, and perhaps not understanding, can you assume that good faith lies behind everyone's truth? Because then, and only then, are you able to expect the same in return.
Viva La Vida
"Mom, check out this song!"
Sometimes I am treated to the whole tune, sometimes to just a 30-second clip. Occasionally, he lip-syncs the entire thing, word for word, complete with facial expressions and the bonus dance move. At other moments, we just enjoy the music together, listening.
Enjoy. I really, really do. Almost every single song that he has asked to download or wanted to share with me, I have liked. And even if I don't think I'm going to like it at first, the darn song grows on me.
The other day, his English teacher assigned an interesting project which required him to choose lyrics from a song that he could identify with. Identify. That's big for an eighth grader, who seems to be all about identifying right now. Not to mention, there are a lot of songs from which to choose. He asked for help, and together, we poured over lyrics and tunes, and from his choices, and his reasons why (and why not) I was given an unexpected glimpse into an unexpected part of his heart.
Yes, he likes Linkin Park, but wouldn't pick any of their songs because they were a little "heavy." He likes Journey and almost chose "Don't Stop Believing" (some songs are timeless!) but Fleetwood Mac was a big NO THANK YOU! His first choice was "Heart of a Champion," by Nelly, but since it had a swear word in it, he was not allowed to use it for a school project. Coldplay's "Viva la Vida" was also in the running, but in the end, he picked "Crazy," by Gnarls Barkley. Crazy. With words like, "I remember when I lost my mind,"and "Who do you think you are? Even your emotions had an echo," I was thrown back into junior high myself for a moment. I understood why he chose the song, and I loved reading the words with him. He told me why he liked the verses, the music, the artists. So now, when I am cooking dinner or watching TV and I hear him call, "Mom, check out this song," I go. I check it out. The song, and my son.
Today, when I was in the car, my XM radio was tuned to "Top 20 on 20." (Obviously, the kids had been with me last, since it was not tuned to Fox News anymore!) Suddenly, a very beautiful violin began playing, quite loudly, an introduction to a song. I knew the song. I had heard it before. At first, I couldn't place it. I couldn't identify. But suddenly, it came to me—it was a Jono song. "Viva La Vida," I thought to myself. Coldplay. The darn thing stuck with me. And I drove around in the rain just so I could hear the whole thing.
Superhero Moments
Sometimes, I feel like a Superhero. Sadly, those things which cause me to feel like Wonder Woman or Bat Girl are often quite ordinary, normal things, but when done in conjunction with each other or with seemingly superhuman speed, I can't help but congratulate myself on my amazing ability.I should qualify something first: I've never been one to really like those essays or articles that expound about how much a stay-at-home mom does in a day, and then the author wraps it all up at the end with some lovely quote, like, "but I wouldn't trade it for the world." Not to say that I don't feel that way; I do, certainly. However, when I accomplish a LOT in one day, I feel like Superwoman. And then I have to wonder: what is the normal amount accomplished by the average woman in a given day? It may be that I am feeling like a Superhero for accomplishing what a "normal" woman gets done in an average day. (Isn't that a sad thought?) Then again, if someone achieves greatness every single day and never gets to feel SUPER-greatness, isn't that also sad?
Let me tell you what I mean.
A normal day. The kids go to school, I might run errands, I might write, I switch the laundry, I figure out what's for dinner, I make our bed and briefly straighten the kids' rooms so I can stand to look at them (the rooms, not the kids), I empty the dishwasher, and the kids come home. After school activities, dinner, bed. In the interest of full disclosure, I will say that after everyone is in bed, I also browse through my TiVo list, watch a few things, and answer some email. I usually stay up too late. We have a clean house and a nice life. It is completely normal, and I know this from having conducted a focus group, which consisted of talking to my girlfriends on the phone, who told me that they do pretty much the same thing.
But on a Superhero Day, I clean all the bedrooms (and myself) and make our bed before I even go downstairs. I nicely ask (demand) that the kids make theirs. I do my errands and the grocery shopping, and the dinner is planned and prepped by early afternoon. And then, something extraordinary might happen, like the day I rearranged all of the furniture in the basement, which included dragging a treadmill from one corner to another and moving a train table to a less conspicuous place. (Moved the train table ALSO by dragging it, which is the only way to move furniture by one's self.) A few extra loads of laundry or dishes, helping with challenging homework, arranging lots of appointments, handling the bills, sweeping the porch, or cleaning out the van. While all of these fall under my normal "job description" (minus rearranging the furniture), on a day when they all happen in tandem? Superhero Day, for sure! Throw in a sick child, a doctor's appointment, a school play, a dead fish, a forgotten violin, a traveling husband, and two children with activities on the same night
. . . SUPERHERO II: STOP THE MADNESS!
I know that there are women, people, who are living real and true Superhero Moments everyday. Facing real challenges, having to wear a real cape of bravery and strength and courage. That's why I stand in utter disbelief of myself sometimes . . . why should I feel so accomplished by having gotten through any given day, however long and busy?
But maybe it's okay to flex my Superhero Muscle and say, "I'm strong. This was a tougher day then usual. I can clean up a dead fish, make dinner, move a couch, and help my daughter with her math. It might not be the toughest challenge in the world, but today, that was what God gave me. And in the end, I will be the stronger for it." And at the end of the day, I will lie down and rest, because I never know what cape I will have to wear tomorrow.
Beautiful Girls
I was ill-prepared for the grandness of the event at hand. Not the party, the make-over. When I came upstairs to dress, she had arranged all of her tools and color choices on the counter. Brushes, shadows, blushes, liners, concealers and powders, all artfully displayed in my bathroom.
"Ready, Mom?"
"I'm dressing first, and then I'll be ready for make-up, Abigail."
"I'm not so sure about that black shirt," she says, eying me.
I take a deep breath.
"I think it's good with the rest of the outfit, Abby."
She gives me a look filled with doubt. She is ten.
"Mom, I'm just saying . . . long sleeves?"
"Yes," I answer, realizing suddenly that I have stepped into an episode of "What Not to Wear, The Tween Years."
The make-up portion of the evening is sounding better and better, so I finish dressing and approach the bathroom.
I begin to moisturize, and she watches.
"What kind do you use?" she asks. I tell her, and take the moment to talk about sunscreen.
"Good point," she says.
She reaches for the blush, and I stop her, needing to first blend in a mineral foundation. She watches, entranced.
"Oh, shoot!" I exclaim. "I forgot my eye cream."
"What's eye cream for?" Abby asks.
"Dark circles."
"Yeah, you're gonna want that."
I feel my lips twitch with unspoken words, but she is right.
I blend in the under-eye cream, and then it is her turn. She begins with my eyes, showing me her color choices, seeming shocked that I don't question her decisions. There is no need; she is right about everything. The browns, the golds, the colors to highlight my best features and conceal the imperfections. There is even a little extra sparkle for nighttime. She holds my face in her hands and uses a light touch. It takes a while, and I am in no hurry. I let her apply my eyeliner, my mascara, and then powder, lipstick, and blush.
"I want to use a darker blush, Mom. I think it will be pretty."
I okay the decision, and when I look in the mirror, it is her face I see first, next to mine, waiting for a reaction. For a moment, I am stunned by the job she has done. My make-up is soft, it is luminous, it is exactly the way I would want to look for this particular night
"Abby, you did such a good job. A really, really good job. I'm beautiful."
"Do you think so?"
Do I think so? That's a huge question. How often do I feel it? Like many women, perhaps rarely. And say it out loud? Perhaps never. But she had created on me (and in me) such a difference, that it was easy to give into the moment. I was beautiful, by her hand, and she had given me this unexpected gift. This beauty. This beautiful moment.
I add the cardigan to the black t-shirt, and I'm not sure if she is impressed, and I find myself actually wanting her opinion, but it is late, and I need to leave.
"You need more gloss," she says.
I stop in the doorway of the bedroom and allow her to touch-up my lips.
"There," she says, satisfied.
"Thank you," I say, meaning it.
"You're welcome." She is beaming.
How is it that I feel like a movie star but it is Abby's face that is shining with no make-up at all?
Hers was true beauty glowing from within . . . no compacts, no glosses, no tubes. And if I could bottle up that beautiful feeling, that beautiful moment, that beautiful girl, I would. And on a day that is bound to come, a day when she questions her own beauty, I would open that bottle and give back to her this beautiful gift that she has so freely given to me.
Soul Food
Isn't that a fantastic way to put it? When your soul is fed? So I thought about it, and I think I can tell. But I'm not sure that I had ever given it much thought until she very nonchalantly said those words.
There are times when I am just feeling so good about something and I can't really put my finger on the emotion. Maybe it's after a lazy Sunday afternoon, just hanging around with my family watching football in the family room. Maybe it's following a Sunday morning when I've sung in the choir and I really loved the song. (If there was a tambourine involved, even better!) Time at home with my husband, not traveling, not rushed. Maybe I took a walk with my best friends and we laughed and talked and exercised all at the same time. Maybe I carved out some time in the day to be really alone with my thoughts. Reading a great book in the big chair. Playing Guitar Hero with my kids. A good, healthy meal eaten around the table with real conversation. A baseball game on a fall evening. Ending my night with prayer, to be in conversation with God.
Soul food. All of it.
But, darn it, there's the opposite of soul food. And I don't know what it would be called . . . soul junk? The stuff that saps the energy from my spirit, the things that take away from the best part of me and suck the life out of what could be a great day. Negative self-talk. Getting too upset by little things. Worrying about things before they happen. Not giving these worries or fears to God. Tiny dramas. (Oh, the drama. . . now THIS is another blog for another time . . . because I can create a screen-worthy drama out of nothing at all.) Junk food. (Yes, I find that junk food clutters up a good day, but sometimes a girl needs a french-fry.) Careless words tossed around thoughtlessly. Mindless errands. Google. (Oh, I LOVE Google for it's real and true purpose, but when I start Googling "Jon & Kate + 8" to see the scoop behind the reality show, that's a problem.) Television, computers, magazines . . . all things I adore and will not entirely abandon, but they do suck the time away from me like a vacuum if I'm not careful. And could there have been a better use for that time?
Listen, I am the FIRST person to say that a few minutes with People magazine and a Hershey Bar has always been good for my soul. And as far as that little nugget of peace goes, if it's not broken, I'm not going to fix it!
But a little balance never hurt anyone.
So, I am going to consciously try to feed my soul a little better. And on this soul food diet, I don't have to give things up; instead, I get to add in heaps and heaps of the things I love the most.
Still Running. . .
To all of you who have asked me, "How's the running going?" First, thank you for asking! I appreciate your interest and the encouragement that you give me. You are often runners yourself, and I am ready to listen and learn. Second, to answer your question. . .
It's going pretty well. That is to say, I haven't stopped. I mean, I STOP sometimes, obviously. I'm not continuously running. That would be crazy, and believe me, this running thing has brought enough crazy into my life as it is.
Crazy thing #1: I'm not skinny yet. I really and truly thought that would happen immediately. Once around the block. Skinny. Done. Um. . . apparently not. I mean I'm RUNNING for it, aren't I? Yes, I am also running for my health and my heart, and my peace of mind (more on that later). But skinny? That would be a great bonus and I'm still waiting.
Crazy thing #2: My husband has decided to run with me.
Crazy thing #3: We are still married. And believe me, I would completely understand if that man decided to KEEP ON RUNNING one night after enduring my verbal abuse. But I swear, it is a phenomenon that I cannot control and was unaware of, having usually exercised alone. I seem to have such an underlying fear (hatred?) of running that all of my negative energy comes pouring out in a horrifying verbal stream. Toward Adam. But he shouldn't take it personally. . . he just happens to be running next to me. And God bless that man. . . he just keeps telling me that I'm doing great. Although last night, through Volume 100 on my iPod speakers (we have added iPods to the run to "make things more pleasant"), I think I heard him say something about "no other man could possibly stay married to her." Surely he must have said that no other man could be lucky
enough. . . ?
Crazy thing #4: I'm getting better and faster.
Crazy thing #5: I still can't admit it to myself.
While this running thing is still very new and a little out of my comfort level, I am still treading along. At a bit of a faster pace and with a little bit of a lighter heart. And as for peace of mind: I have to say, I find it sometimes, like it or not, even when the worst part of me is fighting to come out and spew my inner negative nonsense all over the street, I'm accidentally finding peace and balance from running. And on a nice fall night, with a song blaring in my head (so my mouth stays shut) and my husband by my side, even I can get past the not-so-skinny-yet, and take comfort in the peace, the company, and the simple pleasure of the journey.
School Supply Breakdown
Stretchy book covers. Safety goggles. Fifteen folders with pockets and prongs. White eraser. Pink Eraser. Index cards, two sizes. Combination lock. Red pens. Blue Pens. Black Pens. Pencils. Highlighters. 24 crayons. Oops. . . another box of 24 crayons. Colored pencils. Red marker. (I think if we lined up all of the writing utensils currently in this house, end-to-end, we could reach twice around the Earth.) Page protectors. One set of 8-subject dividers, four sets of 5-subject dividers. Wide-ruled paper. College-ruled spiral notebook. Graph paper. Ruler. Protractor. Three pair of scissors. Four glue sticks. Two school boxes. One calculator. White-out. Sticky-notes. Two 1" binders. Three 2" binders. Three 1.5" binders. One 3" binder.
HOLD EVERYTHING!!!!!
It was the binders that sent me over the edge. Do you know how big a 3" binder is? Oh. I guess you do. Three inches wide. But let me tell you, that is REALLY BIG for a binder, especially when stacked on top of at least 12.5 inches of other binders in my cart at Staples.
"What are these for?" I ask.
"School," says Jono, checking off his list, haphazardly tossing binders willy-nilly into my cart. "Wait. I like the orange binder." He is reaching for the shelf.
"STOP!" I am screaming in Staples. "That orange binder is 14.99. You cannot have it." I actually throw my hands out, in stop-sign fashion. If I were at a wedding, I might look like I was dancing to a Supremes' song. But sadly, I am in an office supplies store.
"Okay," he says, looking at me like I'm the one who is completely crazy. I am not.
"Find the cheap binders, the basic binders. What are these for again?"
"One for math, three for language arts, two for science, one for history, one for health, one for Spanish."
"Right. Sure. Wait, what?"
I really cannot grasp the binder concept. I am stunned by the amount of binders. Binderbinderbinder. It is beginning to feel like "binder" isn't even a real word. The vinyl folders are piling up in my cart, annoying me.
"Where are you going to keep these?" I ask.
"My locker," he says. "Oh, I need a lock."
To lock up the one million dollars' worth of binders. Of course.
"How big is your locker?" I am incredulous. Obviously, at least 15.5 inches wide.
Jono doesn't know. He is gone, anyway, in search of locks.
I have a brilliant flash—I will invent one binder, 15.5 inches wide, in which all of the other binders can fit. Yes, I will have to invent a giant scary hole punch, but that's just another coup for me, I think.
I have an 80's flashback (these happen frequently) to the days of the Trapper Keeper, a nice system with dividers and a Velcro flap. There was a lot to be said about the school supplies of my past . . . simple, honest, straightforward. A Trapper Keeper did what it promised. It trapped your papers. It kept them. If I'm remembering correctly, it might have had a pencil pouch inside. Nice touch, Trapper.
Jono has returned with index cards, in a package of 500. No lock, but I can't fit it in the cart anyway.
I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead. "Please, God," I am thinking, "do not let me fall apart in Staples. It is school supply shopping. This is not rocket science. Unless . . "
"Jono, do you need a binder for Rocket Science?"
He rolls his eyes.
"I only need 10 index cards, but this is all they have."
"Put. Them. Back."
"But, Mom. . ."
My child. My lovely, always-prepared child. How can I tell him that I am unwilling to buy 490 extra index cards so that he can fulfill a list that would please the owner of any small business? He will lose sleep if he does not have his supplies. He will worry. I cannot go to another store. We are at an impasse. He looks at me. I look at him. The binders are multiplying in my cart.
"Let's get these later," he says.
I love this boy. I am thankful for this school system that prepares my child for the world. I am grateful for his teachers and for what they give of themselves. I am blessed that I can afford to provide what my family needs. And, believe it or not, I love shiny new school supplies.
But I hate binders.
Live Big
"You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world." —Marianne Williamson
I intend to print this quote out in bold color and big font and tape it to the refrigerator for my children to see in honor of back-to-school. If you have been in my house, you know that there are quotes and definitions adorning my fridge all season long. There are words and phrases that inspire me, ideas that I want my children to learn, to absorb. Occasionally there is a funny email or a silly joke, but it is always something "wordy." More often than not, there are simply words and meanings, there for them to soak up every time they grab the milk. For me, it feels good to surround myself and my people with words that I like.
Generosity.
Happiness.
Confidence.
Peace.
Joy.
Inspire.
Family.
But back to my new favorite quote. Playing small. Today we drove home from South Carolina, and on this long drive I was thinking about how these words impact my own life. I found that I could easily confuse "playing small" with "acting small." Different kinds of small, I believe. Acting small is easily mended, usually in the moment. But playing small? Fixing this would require a commitment to LIVING BIG.
Am I living big? And what does that mean? I am a child of God, and my playing small doesn't serve the world. In my life, what does it mean to ensure that I'm not playing small, that I am living big enough to serve the world?
When I wrote about the Olympians the other day, I wrote in total admiration of their talents. Everyday they shine, by using their gifts fully and completely. From childhood classes to Olympic training sessions, they have treated their talents with respect and care, and then on the biggest stage in the world, they show the biggest audience—the WORLD— how big they live.
I am not an Olympic athlete. (Surprise.) But on those days when I do not shine, when I let fear hold me back, when I say "I can't" instead of "what if?" am I playing small? What is it that God has fully planned for me? When I do not trust myself to follow, am I not allowing myself to have the biggest possible life that I can have? What is my Olympic stage, and what will happen when I stand on it and open myself to all possibilities?
Today, when we were almost home, we saw a hot air balloon in the sky. I had to laugh, because I was just trying to figure out the "living big" thing in my head, and it was as if God sent me a very colorful message. "See this guy, Christy? He lives big. HE rides in a hot air balloon. "
In just four short days, the children are heading back to school, and back to everything else: sports, dance, choir, theater, church activities, academics, band, orchestra, art. There will be no playing small. There will be joy, there will be fullness, there will be trust, and there will be living. Big. So when I feel unsure and negative, when I feel like playing small, I'm going to try to recapture some of that trust and just live. Bigger. I hope you will, too, because I'd hate to be cheated out of whatever it is that you have to offer this world.
Lock Down
Here is what I do know for sure. If the back door, the garage door, or the front door opened and shut (and by shut, of course I mean slammed) one more time in this 24 hour period, I might have ripped any and all of these doors from their hinges with my newly manicured bare hands.
My darling children are not locked out forever. In fact, I will let them in when they knock (maybe) but what I need is the warning period. . . I need the few minutes of peace between the knock and the entry. I need the few minutes while they are trying every door to gain entry into the house. For yes, every door is locked, and one is even dead bolted. I need a minute.
I love summer.
I love Popsicles, sprinklers, flip-flops, bikes, dirty feet, you name it. . . I love it. Late to bed, late to rise, movies, day trips, poolside lunches and ice cream dinners.
Love it.
There's a lot of togetherness in the summertime.
I am grateful for every moment of it, although you may not actually glean this truth given the start of this particular entry. I'm not the mom who wishes summer away. I don't crave the first day of school, the yellow bus coming around, the moment when my children are gone. In fact, I dread it. This will be the first year when all of my babes are gone all day long, and I'm not quite sure how I'll react. Badly, I suspect. But, the fact that I have locked the angels out of their own abode today doesn't mean I fear their imminent departure any less.
I just needed for us all to have a tiny bit of distance between us so we can appreciate each other later this evening. What didn't I need? I did not need anymore bathroom doors flying open today while I am getting dressed. I did not need to find any more kitchen cabinet doors left open while three kids (and three friends) scour for snacks. I did not need to hear the microwave door, the fridge door, or the freezer door open and shut one more time. I did not need to hear the creak of the patio doors only to look up and suddenly find that someone has changed the channel from the Olympics to Disney.
Not that I couldn't use some good sunshine and playtime myself, and I may open a door myself and do just that. But in the meantime, it's outside for the lot of them. Our mothers weren't so dumb. . . we were outside all the time, no questions asked, no better place to be.
Oh no. . . one of the children is knocking. Hang on a second. . . I need to go speak through the window.
"What? I know you can't get in. I know the Popsicle is cold, it's frozen. No. No. Yes. No. Outside. Later. Because I said so. Because. Because. Because."
Crisis averted. Phew!
It's peaceful, these few moments, but I do see them circling.
When I am alone and lonely on those early September days, not so far from now, I will miss the slamming doors, and I will remember how hard it was to find even a moment's peace. Remind me that summer will roll around again soon, and that all the things I love—the noise, the Popsicles, the bikes, and the friends will soon fill my days. And remind me that I only locked the children out of the house once, in a moment of weakness. And that it only lasted for ten minutes. . . I'm heading out to play.
And The Medal Goes To. . .
Since Friday night, I have viewed handball, basketball (men and women), volleyball (regular and beach), fencing, cycling, swimming, gymnastic qualifiers, soccer, water polo, rowing, air pistol shooting, and I think I flipped past some sort of equestrian event very late last night. It may have been a preview. I can't be sure.
I have so much respect for these athletes who have trained for most of their young lives to come and perform on this Olympic stage, in front of the world. Some leave with memories of golden moments, some face disappointing finishes. Some are injured in practice before ever competing and are forced to simply watch as their teammates live the dream. The Olympics are filled with heartbreak and triumph. . . but every single athlete walking into the stadium in Beijing on Friday night was already an Olympian, having made it to Beijing by virtue of talent and skill. Admirable.
Maybe I am so totally enthralled by these two weeks because they represent so many dreams that I never even dared to dream. I can't imagine this dedication to a sport, this sort of physical prowess, this strength, this speed, this power. I admire it, I remain in awe of these young (and, thank you Dara Torres, medium-young!) superstars. I want my children to see what it means to work for something and achieve a goal; and, to see that sometimes winning has nothing at all to do with a medal. Note how many winning moments are less about the medal podium, and more about the story of courage, the story of hope, the story of overcoming great trials to run the race in the first place.
As I write, our National Anthem is playing for Michael Phelps and the relay team. Our flag is being raised, our swimmers are on the podium. Yes, I love these two weeks. We can all share pride in these runners and swimmers and fencers, we can pretend to be them, we can hope and dream for them, and we can thrill in their victories and agonize in their defeats. But don't agonize too long. . .they are all OLYMPIANS.
This super-fan must sign off. . . the television coverage from Beijing is over and will start again in the morning. I wish you all Olympic dreams. I know I have them, day and night.
Adam, Amazon, and God
First, I have to make a disclaimer. I have never had one tiny bit of trouble with Amazon. I love the website, I depend on the service, and I'm a loyal customer. That being said, I have never tried to find the 800-number on Amazon's website, which was the problem du jour. Apparently, there is no phone number listed. Anywhere. What Adam did finally find was a "click here if you want an immediate call back" button. And "Todd" did call him back, but put him on automatic hold for six-and-a-half minutes.
"What if God did this, Christy? What if God had a system that demanded that you enter all of your information, and then He called you back and put you on hold?"
He kind of does, I think, but I couldn't very well express that theory to the madman with the phone on his ear, waiting for customer service.
"That would be terrible," I said, instead, trying to act in a conspiratorial manner. "But I would love it if God had a website."
God.com. I have no doubt that someone owns this particular domain, but I highly doubt that it is God. I think they tried to portray a version of God online in the movie "Bruce Almighty"; millions and millions of emails to God pouring in, separated into different prayer categories, overloading the never-ending inbox. But it's the "contact me" button that could get a little tricky. Would God answer? Direct you to a live chat with a support person? Or, like "Todd," call you back and put you on hold?
It's not really that big of a stretch. If prayers are like contacting God's customer service, sometimes we're on hold for years, and even then, we might not get the results we expect.
"You're going to be angry at the person on the other end of the phone, aren't you?" I ask.
"Yep."
"You're going to tell them about their terrible customer service, aren't you?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Of course I am. No 800-number? Ridiculous."
And when "Todd" finally answered, I hear Adam say to him, "I know this is not your fault, Todd, but I have to tell you something. . . "
I know this is not your fault, God, but I have to tell you something. . .
If God did have a website, it might not be so different after all.
Sanctuary, Part 2
It wasn't half bad. I quite enjoyed it.
And though my cell phone rang once, and I found myself continuously looking up from the pew to ensure that I was alone, all in all I would call it a valiant first effort. It was an unexpected moment, having received some news that required immediate prayer. I needed to be alone with God. The cross and the stained glass windows were as they ever are, but somehow, they seemed present just for me. The realization that I could come here everyday was stunning.
I will admit that I felt like I was sneaking into a private club, or crossing an invisible red velvet rope. To be entering the sanctuary on a weekday afternoon, alone, seemed like something I should do on tiptoe, looking over my shoulder. Clandestine.
Or was that just solace?
I should mention that I was once caught in a sanctuary when I was truly not supposed to be there. In tenth grade, at the high school lock-in, I was found (kind of) in the choir loft making out with Tom Lucky. I say "kind of" because the youth minister came into the sanctuary, fell to his knees, and prayed out loud for the future of the youth of the church. He never acknowledged our presence. In fact, for many years I felt bad for overhearing his private prayer, until one day in my adulthood, seriously out of the BLUE, I realized that this "prayer" had been for our benefit entirely. Can you just imagine his pre-prayer conversation with the volunteers at the lock-in? "Hey, watch this. . . those two are hiding in the choir loft and I'm totally going to pray them out of there. . ."
Is this why I can't be in a sanctuary alone? Can I not be trusted? I guess that's not it (well, not anymore anyway.) God knows what's on my heart, and it hasn't been Tom Lucky for a good many years.
Our church doesn't have a choir loft, anyway. . .
Couch Runner
And let's define "running." So far, it's small intervals of walking and jogging. But it's increasing.
I have to hand it to the folks at coolrunnings.com. It's a good program, if it actually got me running. Me, the girl who has always said that running is for thieves and children. Well, that actually sounds like something my friend Cindy said and I adopted, but I wholeheartedly agree. (Or. . . maybe it was "sneakers are for thieves and children" which is why I had to buy new shoes. I had no sneakers.) And a new bra, but that's another topic entirely, and one not for the aforementioned children. . . but I digress.
ANYWAY, I did find my feathers slightly ruffled at the "couch" part of this workout title. I might not be Bruce Jenner (before he married the mother of those crazy Kardashian girls,) but still, I'm not really jumping into this straight from sitting on the couch 24-hours a day. "Couch to 5K?" Instead, I like to think of this as "Christy to 5K," but I'm a little self-centered. Should you choose to take this on, you might like a different name. Suit yourselves, obviously.
This evening, at the gym, my iPod was tuned to my inspirational playlist. (See previous blog entry : "Crossed Wires.) I found myself running just a little faster than I was last week. The music moved me spiritually, and I was listening to the lyrics instead of watching the clock. Was it possible that I was running AND filling my soul at the same time? I've spent YEARS walking endless treadmill miles, watching the tick, tick, tick, of the treadmill timer, just waiting to be finished with my session. And tonight, it felt like I was running toward something, completing something, filling something. Hmmm. . . could this turn into a 5-Pray?
When I was finished, I stretched, said my goodbyes, and left for home. I figured I could let you in on my secret. I mean, you might be one of my running friends one day, and now you can say, you knew me when. . .
Dragonfly
The dragonfly has six legs, but she cannot walk. I wondered why God would give a creature so many legs that she could not use?
The dragonfly begins her life in water, but as she grows, she moves to the air. I wondered why God would have her leave her place of birth?
She becomes physically strongest during the summer months. I wondered why, when she might seemingly need more strength during a time when she is facing more difficult storms.
But then I learned that it is from the reflection and refraction of the radiant light of this same summer sun that the dragonfly achieves her brilliant colors. The sun offers her more than strength. It makes her who she is.
And even though the beautiful dragonfly moves to the air as she matures, she stays close to water. She can always go back to where she was born.
And why would that lovely dragonfly ever need to walk? My God. . . how she can soar.
Welcome home, Beth.
Moses and the Migraine
I am a horrid Sunday School teacher during the regular year. I worry and I stress and I have 1,000 yellow Post-It notes all over the lesson plan. I don't sleep the night before, wondering about how I will navigate myself and these precious little lambs through the Bible verse and the lesson. But VBS week? Count me in. I put on my lime-green STAFF t-shirt and proudly walk the halls, singing the songs of the day.
Exodus. On my first day of teaching VBS, I asked the kiddos, "Who knows what this word means?"
"Exit."
"A book in the Bible."
"A big group of people."
"It's when Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt."
Wow, I think. All of the above. Aren't kids smart?
And on that particular day, the kids wanted to spend so much time looking up Bible verses and reading them, that we almost didn't have time to sing "On the Trail Again" (yes, to the tune of "On the Road Again.") Kids excited about reading the Bible? Who knew! And by the end of the week, we had sung the songs, danced the dances, constructed the crafts, read the stories, walked the park trail, and really experienced the story of Moses. And I had a migraine that was splitting my face wide open.
I am cursed with migraines, and have been for more than 20 years. Usually manageable, this one was not to be controlled. No medications, no exercise, no stress relief, and no amount of sleep was helping. And on the last night of VBS, I found myself in a warm bath, duly medicated, with an ice pack across my neck. I love VBS, but I hate migraines. And suddenly, on this night, my last ditch effort to feel better, the door to the bathroom flew open.
"Mom, I need you to . . . "
"Sam, I love you. Get out."
Was this the drugs talking? Thank goodness for that "I love you."
And then the door again. Was this a plague? It was my 10-year old daughter.
"Mom, Dad says it's really important that I get medicine on my cold sore right now."
I looked at her like she was an alien. Does she not see the bath, the ice, me?
"Get out. I love you. I will help you soon. Get out."
Now I knew I was loopy. And I wasn't even sure I wanted to keep saying "I love you," but it kept happening. I just wanted them out.
The door opens again. Are you kidding me with this? My husband.
"Chris, can I find the cold sore medicine for Abby?"
"I will find it when I get out." I am speaking slowly with my teeth clenched. I can't look at him.
"God," I think to myself. "Let my people go. Let my people go OUT OF MY BATHROOM. Let them make an exodus OUT OF MY BATHROOM."
"Do you need anything for your headache?" he asks, leaving.
Teeth still clenched. "I need two minutes with no one in this bathroom."
He closes the door.
Exodus. It's an exit. Lots of people. Leaving.
After my bath, I joined my people downstairs. I kissed Sam good night, I found the cold-sore medicine, and interestingly, not too many people asked me for things during the course of those few short minutes that I remained awake.
Thank you, God, for a good week at VBS, for relief from a three-day headache, for an accidental "I love you" dropped into a sentence, and for sending my very normal family out of the bathroom, on a very short exodus. . . to the family room.
Save the Last Dance
Last night, we were dancing to Jack Johnson, the first song on a CD we had created on my iTunes account. A CD, I might add, that we had also copied as a gift for a friend on the last day of Kindergarten. A girl.
"She's my GF, Mom."
"GF?" I had paused, a few days ago, during the explanation.
"Girlfriend," he said, as if I should have obviously known. "I told her on the bus."
He told her.
"Did she answer you?" I asked him.
"No."
Note: I am not biased AT ALL but Sam is a catch. Smart, cute and funny, so obviously she was just stunned into silence.
So when Sam wanted to make her a CD with his favorite songs, I acquiesced, thinking it an appropriate Kindergarten gift, and together we created the CD. (Or, as you and I might have called it once-upon-a-time, a "mix-tape.") The songs were cute, a nice mix of Sam-type songs and some dance tunes, and off it went on the last day of school. And a copy was made for Sam to keep, and thus inspired this conversation that we had last night, during our dance.
"I wonder if [GF] (name withheld for privacy
) is listening to her CD right now," Sam mused."Maybe," I speculated.
"What if she started her CD at the same time I started mine?" he asked.
"That really would be something," I said, still dancing.
He threw himself back on the bed, lost in some GF thoughts, dance over. So soon?
My other children did not have an early love, a GF or a BF. It's all very sweet and very innocent, but I know that all too soon will come a day when it means more, when a real GF truly is playing the CD at the same time, hearing the music, thinking of Sam's tumbling curls, his dimples, his eyes. He's so MINE right now, and I grab his little hands and hoist him up on the bed to dance with me again.
So much ahead, so much to look toward. But tonight, little boy, save the last dance for me.
Kindergarten Mix-Tape
We're Going To Be Friends — Jack Johnson
Magic — Pilot
Accidentally in Love (Theme from "Shreck 2") —Counting Crows
I'm Me and You're You — Laurie Berkner
Funkytown — Lipps, Inc.
Somewhere Over the Rainbow — Israel Kamakawiwo'ole
Vacation — The Go-Go's
I'm Gonna Catch You — Laurie Berkner
Upside Down — Jack Johnson
Our House — Madness
Drive my Car — Laurie Berkner
Shake your Tail Feather — The Cheetah Girls
If I Had $1,000,000 — Barenaked Ladies
Walking on Sunshine — Aly & AJ
September — Earth, Wind and Fire
Hats
Now, about those hats. . .
I have so often referred to myself as a baseball mom, probably because of the mass of sunflower seeds, bats, mitts, chairs, Gatorade, and dirt that all live in my van. I love watching my sons play baseball in the summer— sunglasses, a chair, a bottle of water, and a baseball game—these all speak of summer to me, and I relish the warm evenings, the cheers, the big wins (or a character-building loss), the drippy Popsicles, the time spent together. Seeing Jono on the mound on the same day as I watch Sam hit from the tee is such a strong reminder of how fast time flies. I am thrilled that I have years to watch Sam play. I will treasure the next few years of watching Jono on the field. When did it become "real" baseball? This game is in his heart,and because of that, it is in mine. Yes, I wear the hat of a baseball mom for sure. (A cap, probably.)
And I wear the hat of a dance mom. This year, during her recital weekend, I was more able to stand back and watch Abby take care of her things, make her lists, organize her tights, her hairpieces, her leotards, her shoes, and I was on call for quick hairstyle changes and cool water bottles. I love watching her grow in her confidence, create a real sense of self, and become a leader. This year, she and her friends seemed to be straddling a very fine line between being young dancers and being grown-up ballerinas. In fact, they may have crossed it. They were graceful, they were breathtaking. How is my girl not the tiny dancer in the tutu but instead, the lyrical dancer, the tapper, the jazz performer? I watched her dance, with her whole class, but mostly I was watching Abby and her friend from her very first class, Emily. They met as baby dancers, in the aforementioned tiny tutus, with dance already in their souls. I watched Abby and Emily dance openly and honestly to "She's a Butterfly," and as they twirled and leaped, I watched them as butterflies. Spreading their beautiful wings. Growing in strength and courage and becoming who they are meant to be. Yes, I wear the beautiful hat of a dance mom.
I wear other hats, too, for sure. Don't we all? The hats that describe the gifts that God gave us, and the hats that describe just the crazy things we do, or the things we love, or who we are. Mom, writer, friend, girlfriend, volunteer, wife. . . you name it. . . there's a chapeau! The baseball and ballet hats are worn in honor of the passions that my children so truly and deeply feel, and to the commitments that they have made. Both hats are fun, both are exciting, both can be hot and sweaty, and neither is a hat I ever wore as a child. I love nurturing these God-given gifts and though I don't own these talents, I do have an amazing ability to cheer at a game (loudly) and to applaud at a recital (loudly) and to sit back in awe that they do what they do. And for this, I take off my hats to them.