Lift Off

That's it.

I can't stand it anymore.

I'm taking the plunge.

I'm giving you the address to my NEW WEBSITE.

Don't laugh -- it's not finished. I’m not crazy about the font. And there's some quirky issues with the sidebar links formatting, but that's because I'm (and by "I'm" I mean Bryan) altering a template.

[Bryan finally got the Links categories to appear in the sidebar, but they’re funky and indented. So he say’s to me “The formatting needs to be changed blah blah blah right click on the page blah blah hit view source blah blah blah look for the code blah blah. I have NO IDEA what he’s talking about, but he’s very sweet to think I do.]

Okay, enough with the self-deprecating talk.

[Drumroll, please…]

http://www.thispile.com.

Tell your friends.

Look For Me When You See Me Coming

Bryan told me not to post on Blogger anymore because there is NO WAY IN HELL he will transfer anymore posts for me, but I said to him, TALK TO THE HAND!

So we (and by “we” I, of course, mean Bryan) MacGyver’d all my Blogger posts over to my new website because the easy way was not so easy. In the process, the formatting is all screwed up and none of the comments survived the trip.

So how do YOU spend your free time? I spend mine going post by post, reformatting the text and html. Yipee! I need a drink.

Anyhow, I’m not waiting for it to be perfect or anything before launching it live, but we (and by “we” I really do mean “we” ) are still deciding between two possible domain names.

Bryan made a suggestion on a domain name, which I hated, and even rolled my eyes at. But given a few days, and after tinkering around a little on the new site to get a feel for the content it will contain, I think it may be growing on me.

I’m hoping it will be up by the end of the week.

Thank You For Holding, Your Call Is Important To Us, Please Stand By...

Sorry for the absence.

I am moving this blog over to a new website and technical difficulties have left me in Internet Purgatory. I'm hoping to have the new site up in the next couple days, but in the meantime I will not be posting anything here.

Obviously I will post a link when the new site is live.

Three cheers for my dear husband, Bryan, who has spent hours trying to figure this thing out for me. During his free time. After work. At a job where he's on the computer all day.

This is how he loves me.

Testing, 1, 2, 3

I'm in the process of setting up a blog on my own website. This is a test to see if my blogger account is still working, or if I'm really hosed.

We Are Completely Ridiculous

Bryan got a promotion and a raise this week, so we celebrated by spending all the money up front on a new camera: a Canon SD400 Elph.

I mean, why wait, right? Just milk it dry before it even hits the bank and pray you don't get fired.

I wouldn’t necessarily recommend this type of financial planning, but there seems to be a washer missing on our cash flow lately.

We’ve got ourselves a gusher.

It all started when we got a phat tax return earlier in the year. We spent the money on some assets for our home, such as a new couch; we paid off the furnace we had to buy when the old one broke down on the coldest day of the year, and we splurged a little.

Boy, did we splurge.

And we keep splurging.

I do like the new camera, though, so I can’t complain. That’s the problem: something in me says, ‘Don’t spend the money!’ Then another voice says, ‘But that camera is wicked cool!’

I have only one complaint about the camera itself, though. I think it might be too big and clunky to carry around. I mean, really, if it’s not small enough to hide in your cleavage then what IS the point?

‘Twas a Dark Day in the Zug Home Today

The Gate, she did not hold.

The child, she did not sleep.

The mama, she did so weep.

Ruthie, I am SO not your biggest fan right now. In fact, I’m hardly a fan at all. Currently you are the Angelina Jolie of this family. When you decide to stay in your bed all night, I will stop slandering you on the internet.

Now Hiring: Translator

Average mom seeking Toddler Translator to interpret for household two-year-old. Must love dogs. If you have any clue what the following means, apply within.

"Y home in na-na tar?"

Variations include: "Y home in na-na-na-na tar?" and "Y home na-na-na tar?"

"Oh, and by the way, I think that’s got caffeine in it."

This will likely be an endless and rambling post since Bryan ‘accidentally’ forgot to order my evening latte decaffeinated. He claims my drink was too complicated, and he forgot.

What, like it isn’t NORMAL to get an iced nonfat mint chocolate decaf latte?

Fortunately for me, it’s Complete Bond month on AMC, so I have Roger Moore to keep me company. Not that he’s my favorite James Bond. No, I would have to be cliché here and claim Sean Connery to be my favorite. There’s just something so Cary Grant about Connery as Bond. Last night I watched Thunderball and it was fabulous – every scene started with Sean seducing a blond nurse, and ended with him leaving her to go kill someone. I can’t figure out why Bryan isn’t into my Bond obsession.

Tonight I tried on a pair of pants at Old Navy, and it was a little disappointing. Why do clothing makers automatically assume that fat people are tall? Is there anywhere I can buy a pair of plus petite jeans?

So I have to interject here and testify that I just saw Roger Moore kissing a woman’s abdomen in order to investigate something that was in her belly button. Sean Connery kissing a woman’s belly button… SEXY. Roger Moore kissing a woman’s belly button… NOT SEXY! In fact, he reminds me too much of my father, and that’s just… wrong.

So as I was saying, I’m 5’2” and have an extra twenty pounds I attribute to each of my two children, a gift which I thank them for on a daily basis. Since I have yet to find a Plus Petite section at any clothing store, I usually end up buying Capri length pants because they hit me at the ankles.

[I just saw quite a lengthy commercial for an innovative kitty litter box called "Shake ‘n’ Fresh." That’s late-night t.v. at its finest.]

Here’s a little known fact the internet told me: did you know that Ian Fleming, the creator of the James Bond legacy, was also the author of the book, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, which later became a movie starring Dick Van Dyke?

Well I just yawned and my eyelids are feeling heavy, so I will not prolong your agony any longer. There is really no point to this post, and you will never get back the five minutes you just wasted reading it.

Ruthie the Cat

If you’ve ever owned a cat, or spent any time around one, you already know how they love to curl up on the newspaper you have spread out in front of you.

If you’re reading it on the floor, they’ll sidle up under your chin, make a few passes to get your attention, then lie down on the newspaper and begin to purr. If you’re reading at the table, they still jump up and flaunt their same dance in front of you.

Much like a toddler, they believe they are the center of your world, that the sun rises and sets for your adoration of their existence, that nothing could possibly be more interesting or more beautiful than they are. It’s as if they are proclaiming the newspaper has no significance apart from their connection with it.

When I am working in the garden, Ruthie is like a cat.

Today as I sat on the ground pulling weeds around me, Ruthie plopped into my lap, right under my chin. She felt she was helping me weed, when in actuality I couldn’t see what I was doing because her cute blond head was in my way.

Surprisingly, I was rather good natured about it. I’ve been trying to overcome my impatience and perfectionism for the sake of raising a daughter who still speaks to me when she’s old enough to realize she doesn’t really have to anymore. In this attempt, what I’ve realized is that Ruthie will jump in to “help” me accomplish my task, but quickly lose interest and move on to something else.

She has learned, along with the rest of us, that chores can be rather boring and monotonous.

As for her other catlike qualities, Ruthie is an excellent snuggler.

The New Quote Feature!

I love it when I read or hear someone say something funny or thoughtful, but I hate it when I have no one to share it with. For this reason I have added a Quote Pile to the sidebar, and will link it to this post where I will collect them all. I can't think of a better quote to kick it off with than one of my favorite quotes from one of my favorite movies. Enjoy!

8/19/05
"I assure you that my personal tragedy will not interfere with my ability to do good hair!"
-- Annelle, in Steel Magnolias

8/21/05
"I don't want to marry anyone who's really wicked, but I wouldn't mind marrying someone who could be wicked."
- Anne Shirley, from Anne of Green Gables

8/22/05
"God calls us to a life involving frequent risks and many dangers. Why else would we need him to be our ezer [lifesaver]? You don’t need a lifesaver if your mission is to be a couch potato."
- from Captivating: Unveiling the Mystery of a Woman’s Soul, by John and Stasi Eldredge

8/24/05
"...I opened the door to my houseboat, and I stood there a minute, and then I hung my head and said, 'Fuck it, I quit.' I took a long deep breath and said out loud, 'Alright, you can come in.' So this was my beautiful moment of conversion."
- Annie Lammott, on the moment she became a Believer, as told in Traveling Mercies.

Alive

I have a bug.

A cleaning bug.

I have had so much energy and motivation to Get Things Done that I think it’s driving everyone a little crazy.

There must be some sort of threshold when our babies turn four or five months old where we women suddenly change our hairstyle, go back to the gym, empty out the scary closet, and cook an actual meal for dinner.

I showed up to a birthday dinner with girlfriends a couple years ago when Ruthie was only three months old. These were gals I hadn’t seen for awhile, and they ooh-ed and aaahh-ed over my new haircut. One of them asked how old Ruthie was, and when I told her she said, “Yup. That explains it.”

I think it has to do with routine. Or sleep. Or both.

By three to five months my babies are napping a little more regularly, and sleeping through most of the night. I wake up in the morning recharged, ready to sort through a box of old baby clothes. I can predict with general accuracy when the next nap will occur so I can plan my day accordingly.

I fear that I’m a little over-ambitious these days. I have painting projects on my list, and sewing projects. I need to clean out our storage area, clean out my old office area, and figure out how to make my kitchen pretty until we can afford to remodel it.

I love to purge. I’ve made five trips to the local Salvation Army this month. I even brushed the dog because her fur was cluttering up her body too much. I think she weighs five pounds less, now.

The next time I have a baby (IF I have another baby), I need to be reminded of this threshold. Bryan needs to be reminded of this threshold. We need to just throw Order to the wind and embrace the chaos so we don’t drive each other crazy again.

I feel like my old self again, and I’m remembering how much fun my life is.

When I was a kid, whenever we drove through a tunnel it would get dark and I would roll down the windows of the car and scream until we hit daylight again.

I’ve come back into that daylight.

Book Review for 'Captivating: Unveiling the Mystery of a Woman's Soul,' by John and Stasi Eldredge

I liked this book by John and Stasi Eldredge, let me just state that from the beginning. So if you hated this book please don’t read any further, and PLEASE don’t send me any emails about how John Eldredge is the antichrist. If you were pleased with the book, or remain undecided, or if you haven’t even read it yet, then please, be my guest. Read on.

I begin with that disclaimer because so many reviewers of Eldredge’s latest book are appalled – ABHORRED, I tell ya – that Eldredge would dare to use quotes from movies, music, and secular authors to illustrate his various ideas. So offended are they, that they have ACTUALLY COUNTED the number of secular references Eldredge makes (which, by the way, they can’t even agree on. Some have it at 32 references, some have it at 35).

If you also feel this threatened by “secular” illustrations, then by all means, buy yourself some white gloves, blinders, and a set of headphones so as to not contaminate your sanctified soul with all the heathen cooties that are out there.

That being said, here we go….

According to the Eldredges, a woman’s heart longs to be romanced, to unveil beauty, and to be part of the Great Adventure. But instead we wind up buried under laundry, tired, living a dull life amidst the gossip and pressures within today’s churches.

“We’re all living in the shadow of that infamous icon, ‘The Proverbs 31 Woman,’
whose life is so busy I wonder, when does she have time for friendships, for
taking walks, or reading good books? Her light never goes out at
night? When does she have sex?” (page 6).

Through the early chapters we are reminded of God’s formation of Woman, of her beauty, of her personality, and how it gives us insight into God’s character. Through his creation of Woman we learn that God is relational, he is compassionate, he is fiercely devoted, he is our sustainer, and he desires beauty.

They go a little overboard with their emphasis on the importance of Woman in the order of creation (okay, we get it, Eve was the crown of his creation, the zenith, it was not good for Adam to be alone, I GET IT ALREADY). It bordered a little on self-indulging importance. A mere mention would do, with a few verses to back it up, and maybe a small halo on Eve’s head, but not much more than that is necessary.

They talk of beauty, and how beauty matters to God. And yes, the world cheapens beauty by making it unattainable, but the church equally minimizes beauty, making it all about “character” (page 36). Beauty is seen and felt. Both are important to God. A woman who embraces her beauty and femininity says to the world, “All shall be well.”

“And this is what it’s like to be with a woman at rest, a woman comfortable in
her feminine beauty. She is enjoyable to be with. She is
lovely. In her presence your heart stops holding its breath. You
relax and believe once again that all will be well. And this is also why a
woman who is striving is so disturbing, for a woman who is not at rest in her
heart says to the world, ‘All is not well. Things are not going to turn
out all right’ (page 38).”

They talk of the wounded woman, and how she views God and her own femininity. It will be easy to see yourself in these descriptions. I saw myself. I said, Hey, there you are, written in ink! I saw so much of myself that I began to feel a bit justified, a little indignant toward my husband as they described a woman’s wants and needs.

That is, until they pulled the rug out from under my feet.

Oh sure, use the old look-to-Christ-as-the-captivator-of-your-heart mentality. I’d rather blame my own personal Adam for all my problems, thank you very much.

But seriously, women are urged to “turn off the message of our wounds,” to seek Christ for healing, and to forgive our transgressors. We cannot wait for a man to unleash the beauty within us, “God longs to bring this into your life himself” (page 113). How often have I heard or read this message and rolled my eyes: don’t you think I KNOW I’m supposed to ‘let go and let God’? Yet somehow they manage to break through the cheeseball barrier.

Single? Don’t own your own personal Adam? Not to worry, you are not left out. The book discusses the relationships of women – all kinds. Friendship is important. We must “listen between the lines” (page 181). How do I relate to my sister experiencing depression? To a friend who lost her mother to cancer? To the woman in the parking lot whose car sprung a radiator leak? Do I feel lonely in the midst of a community of people? How are we, as Woman, revealing the character of God to the people he puts in front of us?

“All women are not mothers, but all women are called to mother. To mother
is to nurture, to train, to educate, to rear. As daughters of Eve, all
women are uniquely gifted to help others in their lives become more of who they
truly are….In doing this, women partner with Christ in the vital mission of
bringing forth life” (page 177).

Overall I would recommend this book – and NOT just because it quotes Rebecca Wells and Strictly Ballroom. Its themes are universal. It points us to Christ as the ultimate healer. If you can get past some of the holy-roller I-cried-out-to-God-and-he-smote-my-affliction Pentecostalism, then you can find something meaningful in this book for you.

Perspective

My friend relayed a story to me last night about one of her childhood friends whose husband just checked into a 90-day program for drug addiction. Together they have three children.

Their youngest is only three weeks old.

As the friend who is closest to all the tension that lies between Bryan and I, who has been my sounding board and, at times, our mediator, she told me this story as a loving reminder of all we have to be thankful for in the midst of our complicated lives.

I love my friend for this reason.

She is able to empathize, to listen, to offer encouragement, to validate. Then she’ll turn me around, bend me over, and give me a solid kick in the ass for good measure, just to keep me from wallowing and feeling indignant.

I love that.

Said to me this weekend...

"Hey, Target has washcloths on sale in colors that you like."

I love it that Bryan can look through a Target ad and know what I like.

Sexy Is...

…html.

Seriously.

When I asked Bryan if he could show me how to add book cover images to the sidebar of this website you would have thought I just handed him four backstage passes to a U2 concert.

He loves me dearly, but I think he wants to pull my hair out when he tries to show me geeky computer stuff and I whine, “I don’t have room in my head for all this, just do it for me.” So when I asked him to show me html code for customizing my blog, he gazed at me with stars in his eyes.

…spontaneity.

Yesterday afternoon when Bryan said, “What do you think about going to the pool?” I thought about jumping him right there on the spot, I was so turned on.

It’s not easy being spontaneous and adventurous with two small children, a dog, a mortgage, and a husband who likes routine, but I bloody my fingernails clinging to the Free Spirit within me who is hungry for some attention. I feed her a few random trips to the mall or the occasional night out with the girls, but those usually just involve me, or me and the kids. Nothing satisfies her cravings more than when Bryan is excited about being a Free Spirit, too.

The second orgasm came when he suggested we grab some pizza for dinner before heading home. Whoa. This is a man on the South Beach diet offering to buy me a pizza even though he gets a salad. No man can touch me the way a pizza can. Yet, I felt loved and cared for, not by the pizza, but by the scrumptious man who bought it for me.

I guess after four years we’re finally learning to speak each other’s language!

Late Night Conversation

Last night as I shut down my computer at 1am, the stupid Windows shut-down chime woke Bryan up (because, hallelujah, my FANTASTIC husband bought me a laptop so I can feed my writing addiction while laying in bed watching Carlos Mencia on Comedy Central).

He rolled over, concerned, and said, "Have you been up this whole time?"

"Pretty much," I said.

"Dork."

"Totally."

Then we both dropped off to sleep.

This post is going to be ALL ABOUT BRYAN, and what a great husband he is.

I do not give compliments well, that’s all there is to it.

Bryan told me that should be the first line of my very next post because I keep neglecting to mention all the fantastic, thoughtful things he has done for me this week. Not to mention all the fun we’ve had.

He has a point.

I tend to use my writing as a voice for the angst within, and there’s nothing very interesting about resolution: no suspense, no climax, no tension, nothin’.

So this post is dedicated to the one I love.

Tonight we saw The Violent Femmes play at Zoo Tunes, which is a great outdoor venue on a green lawn with blankets and picnic baskets and wine smuggled in tinted water bottles. Kids are running around everywhere, because kids under age twelve get in for free.

FREE, I tell ya.

In the words of Bob the Tomato, What more do you need to be happy?

There I was, sitting on my blanket, leaning against my picnic basket, listening to great music, reading the book Bryan bought me last week – the book he gave me as a sweet, unprompted gift; the book which he found while browsing Barnes and Noble because I was late picking him up for LAST week’s Zoo Tunes concert (Patty Griffin – talk about musical diversity!); the book which I LOVE and can’t put down – so I was sitting on my blanket enjoying the evening with my husband who was so gracious to me after I forgot the tickets and we had to drive all the way home after I had picked him up from work so we could theoretically get to the zoo early for a good spot, and we actually didn’t get there until ten minutes before it started and had to sit way in the back… and I was content.

The evening could have gone very very bad.

Jokingly, Bryan said, “You have the tickets, right?

Dramatically, I slammed the steering wheel and growled, “FUCK!”

I guess he thought I was kidding, you know, like “Oh no, I thought you had the tickets, ha-ha-ha,” but no, I really meant FUCK!

For the next hour as we made the round trip-and-a-half through evening rush hour traffic to get the tickets I said “I’m so sorry,” with, I believe, twenty-six different inflections and nuances because ONCE could never be enough in Zug Land when you’re an hour late for a show.

But darn it if that Bryan didn’t just blow my Keens off when he says to me, “Don’t worry about it, babe. I’m just enjoying the time I get to spend with you.”

And here’s the best part: HE DIDN’T SOUND LIKE A COMPLETE CHEESEBALL WHEN HE SAID IT! He really meant it. He wasn’t saying it through clenched teeth as he really thought to himself, “I need to set up a color coded charted and timed system to ensure this doesn’t happen NEXT week….”

He was very sweet, and I finally relaxed, and we had some of our best conversation of the evening during that drive.

It was pretty surreal to see Gordon standing there right in front of me as he sang (well, not RIGHT in front of me, more like at the other end of a football field, but still, it was surreal). He just has one of those distinct voices that you think is make-believe – kind of like Elmo or Grover – and to see that a real person makes that sound was, well, surreal.

I had the same experience the first time I saw Stevie Nicks sing.

The climax of the evening came during ‘Add It Up,’ the song that was The Femmes’ greatest – their paramount, if you will – which of course they saved for the last song of the evening, at which point all bodies leaped (leapt?) up from their picnic blankets to dance.

Tattooed bodies, magenta hair, average thirty-somethings with kids: they all danced. Children danced hand in hand with their parents, doing the jitterbug, or the twist, or some such dance.

Have you ever heard the words to ‘Add It Up?’

Watching the children dance with their parents, Bryan says, “I think I’m scarred.”

Close Calls and Other Lessons In Grace

The other night a friend of mine told me a story about a “terrifying yet amazing thing” that happened to her toddler. After not hearing from him for awhile (we all know what happens when a toddler is too quiet) she stuck her head out the back door to see what he was up to. He was standing in their fenced-in back yard pointing at the gap between the fence and the house.

“No, Isaac,” she said. “Come away from there.”

The gap was big enough for him to fit through, and my friend’s husband had been meaning to close it off.

Just then her doorbell rang. It was a neighbor inquiring whether there was a little boy who lived in this house. The man had seen a young toddler walking down the shoulder of the road in front of the house next door, and wanted to be sure he was safe.

Just then, my friend’s son, Isaac, came trotting around the corner.

“Yup, that’s him,” said the man.

Horrified, my friend realized she had stuck her head in the yard just as her son had returned from his streetside adventure.

I think all parents have near-miss stories like this one.

The potential for this incident to end in tragedy was not lost on my friend, but she expressed how faithful God is to watch over our children even when we can’t or don’t. She would not allow herself to dwell on the possibilities, nor would she allow her husband to beat himself up over not having fixed the gap sooner.

God had shown them grace, and they did not take it for granted: the gap was fixed immediately.

I was impressed by this take on things. She had started the story off by saying, “I need to tell you something really scary that happened to Isaac, but it was also really cool.”

I was intrigued.

As it turned out, the Really Cool part was the ability to recognize the presence of Grace in a preventable circumstance.

It made me think about me and Bryan, and all the bickering we’ve been doing lately. I played out the scene in my mind as it would have happened had the same thing happened to us. I dare say neither of us would be so gracious.

Bryan would have blamed me for not having some sort of system in place to make sure Things Get Done around the house.

I would have blamed Bryan for not having time to Get Things Done around the house.

Neither of us, I believe, would have been able to let go of the fact that the gap SHOULD HAVE BEEN FIXED a long time ago.

Neither of us, I’m certain, would have been gushing on about how amazing it is that God protects our children when we should be perfectly capable to do it ourselves.

This is how we struggle. How do we show each other grace – how do we recognize God’s grace? – without sacrificing the need to be good stewards of the things God has given us?

Bryan and I are pretty hard on each other. I know I feel the heavy hand of high expectations, and I dish out a pretty good dose of justification. Just the other day after reporting the nail polish incident to him at work, his first question was, “Where did she get the nail polish?”

Because of our struggles lately, this was a loaded question. In my mind it implied so many things: Why was the nail polish on the dining room table anyway? Why did you let so much time go by without checking on Ruthie? Why weren’t you able to make the salad during the kids’ nap time? Don’t you think you’re taking on too much by babysitting someone else’s toddler?

Bryan may have thought these things, and he may not have. But history begged the possibility of both the questioning and the track record prompting the questions.

In the end, what I long for is graciousness: the ability to give it freely, and the ability to see it when it’s given freely to me.

The lesson for today is “Listen To That Inner Mommy-Voice When It’s Screaming At You, or Else [insert tragic circumstance here].”

Just when I thought I was running out of things to write about and my blog would shrivel up and die, my two year old once again provided plenty of material for me.

To preface this story I would just like to say that in addition to my 4 month old and two-and-a-half-year-old, I’m also watching my friend’s 18-month-old for a week. Plus, it’s ninety degrees today which makes everyone whiney.

That is my defense.

For a brief hour today I had all three kids simultaneously taking naps, during which I read a book without guilt. One by one they each began to wake up, so I began the snack rotation while putting dinner together. It was only 1:30 in the afternoon, but I was making a chicken curry salad that needed to be chilled.

Toward the end of all this mayhem, one kid was crying, one kid was wandering happily about with toys in hand, and one particular EEEVIL blond girl was much too quiet.

The Voice told me to check on her.

I ignored The Voice.

“But I just want to mix this dressing,” I told The Voice. “I’ve been trying to make this salad all morning and I’m almost done.”

She’s up to no good, said The Voice. CHECK ON HER NOW!

Quietly and patiently I scooped the salad into a tupperware and put it in the fridge, washed my hands, put a few dishes in the dish washer, then walked into the living room to check on Ruthie.

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!

[Now, let me just take this moment to assure everyone that I later apologized to Ruthie for what you are about to read because, while she grossly misbehaved, there is no excuse for the temper I unleashed on her in my anger. I am far from perfect as a mother, but I always make a point to tell Ruthie I’m sorry when I am wrong.]

The pink I painted on her toenails apparently was not enough for Ruthie, because she confiscated the bottle of nail polish and painted her legs, her arms, and poured the rest of the bottle out onto my BRAND NEW COUCH.

This is the couch I saw in the store window, fell in love with, waited six months until we had the money to buy it, waited five weeks for it to be delivered, and now have the privilege of napping on daily. It’s red. It’s soft. If I were Dooce I would lick my couch.

I’ve only had it for three months.

I believe what came out of my mouth was something like, “YOU ARE IN SUCH BIG FUCKING TROUBLE YOU KNOW BETTER THAN TO TAKE THINGS OFF THE TABLE DO YOU REALIZE HOW MUCH I HAD TO FUCKING BEG FOR THIS COUCH I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU DID THIS…” etc. etc. etc. You get the idea: all caps, no punctuation, lots of swearing.

Poor thing. Poor, unsuspecting cute blond girl who just wanted to look pretty.

I think the most important thing that I am currently learning as a mother is how easy it is to crush the spirit of my children and embitter them against me. Countless times I have, in mid-sentence, flash forwarded in my mind to Ruthie at age thirteen: bitter, rebellious, and hating me because we’ve spent our entire relationship butting heads.

She is a creative, smart, observant, verbal, independent girl, and I think most of the time I fail to recognize all of these (and more!) amazing qualities about her because I’m so fixated on her stubborn will and propensity to be curious.

I pray on a daily basis that I will let go of this and learn to choose my battles more carefully with her so the next time I go ape over [insert tragic circumstance here], my voice is not just the white noise she hears from me all day long.

I made good with Ruthie. As I cleaned her up I spoke quietly to her, apologizing for losing my temper, and I asked her to forgive me. We kissed, we hugged, then we had some snuggle time while the other kids napped again. I cherish my time alone with her, and I wish I could will myself into being more tender with her when she’s out of line.

She is a beauty -- a one-of-a-kind -- and I love her dearly.

Peaches on Top

The other night as I sat eating a bowl of vanilla ice cream with fresh peaches on top from the local farmer’s market, I was reminiscing of Gordy. He loved summer fruit, and he loved peaches with ice cream. I think blueberries were his favorite cereal topping, but for some reason as I sat there eating peaches with my ice cream, it had GORDY written all over it.

God, I miss him.

He had a way of getting excited over simple pleasures, like summer fruit and corn on the cob. I have memories of him marching into the kitchen with frisky determination, rubbing his hands together as he planned his attack on the fruit of the day.

Some days it was strawberry-rhubarb. He would cook batches of it on the stove: fresh rhubarb from the garden, strawberries, a little sugar to mellow it out. I couldn’t WAIT for strawberry-rhubarb season. I would spread it on my Wheaties, we’d have it on pancakes, and it was just the right amount of tart to put on vanilla ice cream.

Gordy knew how to savor.

Real Women Have Curves

I love the fitness club I go to. Aside from the fact that it’s a women’s only club (no sweaty jocks), normal people work out there.

I don’t like working out next to women with tight butts who eat carrot sticks all day long. I much prefer the women who, like me, just need to keep moving so as to not melt into the couch. Women who, like me, follow up a great workout by drinking lots of water and gorging an entire roll of Ritz crackers because they are so buttery they are better than chocolate.

(Well, maybe not BETTER, but at least AS GOOD as chocolate and somehow more justifiable.)

Correction

Sidwalk Chalk should be renamed 'Everything But Sidewalk Chalk.'

Scam

I feel violated.

I was nearly the victim of an internet scam, but thanks to the cynical, distrusting, believe-the-worst-about-everyone-until-proven-they-are-actually-nice nature of my personality, I prevailed.

I received an email from Ebay stating if I didn’t update my account information my account would be suspended after ten days.

I ignored it.

Ten days later I received a follow-up email stating they were about to suspend my account unless I update my account information.

I nibbled a little on the hook.

I clicked on the link they provided, entered my login and password to my Ebay account, and up popped a form requesting my credit card number as a verification of my identity.

I read through the whole form, only to discover they not only requested my credit card number, but also the three-digit security code on the back of the card, plus the friggin’ PIN NUMBER to my ATM!

DO THEY REALLY THINK I’M THAT STUPID???

I feel victimized. I feel shame. I need a shower.

The Picture

So I suppose now would be a good time to explain the profile photo I recently posted. After all, when one has writer’s block regarding her vacation recap, why not talk about bad picture days?

In this photo I am six or seven months pregnant – whatever March minus December equals. It is Christmas morning; I have just opened a spa kit bigger than my car; and I have bed head.

Yes, I am wearing a bubble gum pink bathrobe with cocktails embroidered on it.

Let me explain: I have a wonderful, lovely husband who, like most husbands, needs a little help when it comes to gift ideas.

We have an arrangement: I give him a clue, and he goes hog wild.

Take, for instance, the bathrobe you see in the picture. One year for my birthday I said, “I would like a bathrobe.”

Period.

I stated no conditions as to what said bathrobe was to feel, look, or function like.

Beautiful, lovely, witty husband returned with the bubble gum pink bathrobe with embroidered cocktails all over it.

He knows me well.

Happy Anniversary

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly time marches on -- that I would find myself on this, my fourth wedding anniversary, cleaning the house, paying bills, and thawing meat for dinner.

I’m not much of a romantic, but I somehow still envisioned that this day would feel special, magical, because this was the day I chose to leave Self and enter Other. On this day I sacrificed my vision of the future in order to follow the vision of one man, and for a 29 year old independent woman, that was a big deal.

What I see now after a morning of pondering the current ebb of our relationship, is that the magic lies in not the emotional feeling of the day, but rather in the choice to love even when one needs friends to remind her of why she first loved in the beginning.

And to the one I love I say happy anniversary, and I love you even more today.

Home Again Home Again Jiggity Jig

You know you’ve had a great vacation when you are oh so ready to come home and clean your house.

We had a great time, and camping with two kids was, well, not a breeze, but it went very well. Ruthie was very proud to be sleeping in her sleeping bag, and she didn’t even pee in it until the last night so that worked out well.

I have many stories to tell, starting with Bryan’s Amazing-Race-like dash to the best camping spot, but I will have to leave your mouth watering for more because I have dust bunnies the size of my dog that need to be tamed into submission.

I will find time later to tell tales of slugs, sprinkles, and teenage drama.

My Coming-Out Party

I have a friend who likes people.

I know this because I’ve seen her talk to them. A couple weeks ago we were walking together on a trail near my home, and she actually smiled and said "good morning" to every person we passed. I walk this same trail several times a week, and it never occurred to me to speak to any person I encounter along the way.

I do not like people.

I’m so incapable of small talk that I let Bryan hold our stationary three month old after church so I can busy myself with chasing our two year old around the building and not be committed to any particular conversation (“Oh, excuse me, I think I just saw Ruthie throw herself in front of a truck.”)

I envy my Friend Who Talks to People.

Lately there has been a homeless woman who camps out in the parking lot across the street from my house. She has two or three shopping carts full of belongings that she moves around town with her. The first time I saw her I didn’t know what to do about it. She talked to herself quite a bit, but seemed harmless so I didn’t want to complain to the police about her. So in my attempts to be more compassionate and people-oriented in the vein of my Friend Who Talks to People I tried to come up with something to say to this woman.

But what do I say? Do I bring her food? Do I offer to help her find a shelter? How involved should I get, and is it wrong for me to have to think so hard about it?

In the end I caved to my own weakness, chickened out, and decided to call my Friend Who Talks to People because she will become this homeless woman’s best friend from the first warm smile and the sort of hug that only my Friend Who Talks to People can give.

Wouldn’t you know it, before I even had a chance to tell her about the homeless woman she had already sat on the curb to chat with her, learned her name, her life story, and how she became homeless. The next thing I knew, my Friend Who Talks to People was loading this woman’s belongings into the back of her minivan so the woman could check herself into a homeless shelter!

Now, why didn’t I think of that?

When I lived in New York I had a friend named Grace who was a gregarious Italian from Brooklyn. She loved people so much her husband used to tease her that she'd strike up a conversation with a light pole: "So tell me Light Pole, how long have you been standing there?" I found her magnetic personality refreshing and entertaining, if not a bit tiring at times. She was more than just my muse, though. I watched her. I paid attention to what she did and said to complete strangers. I found that she was compassionate, that kindness oozed from her like honey.

The other day as I walked the trail with my two kids in the double stroller and my dog, Scout, on her leash, I got the usual amount of comments regarding how full my hands must be (blah blah blah), and I started to think about my Friend Who Talks to People, and my friend Grace, and even my sister who visited from a whole other state and STILL said hello to people she FOR SURE wouldn’t know.

And I thought to myself, How hard can this really be? I mean, it must be in my genes if my OWN MOTHER can become best friends with the labor nurse over the course of my daughter’s entry into this world (picture a lighthearted chat about how hot the weather is this time of year in Minnesota while I am naked, squatting on a ball, and groaning like a boar in heat).

So I started saying “good morning” to the people I passed on the trail that morning, and a strange thing happened… people smiled at me! And they said hello, and they didn’t shoot poison darts at me or punch me in the nose or laugh at me!

THEN I got all crazy and everything and asked for this gal’s phone number who’s daughter was in the same tumbling class as my daughter because I thought we could get together for a play date once the class ended. But whoa, that ended up to be WAY too much friendliness for me and I have yet to pick up the phone to call her because what on earth would I SAY?

Sigh.

Like Bill Murray in “What About Bob?” I’ll just have to take baby steps.

Vacation Preparations

I really shouldn’t be writing this right now. Currently Ruthie is in slumberland and Thomas is gazing happily at his own reflection, so I should be running around like a mad woman getting ready for our vacation. It’s no small task to pack for a five day camping trip with two small children. Fortunately it’s “car camping,” so we’re packing up just about our entire household… including the backyard hammock!

Normally I would say, What’s the point? Why go through the trouble to take your nice, indoor, plumbed, kitchen with a lovely fan and take it outdoors where there is no running water and no fan to cool your glistening skin? Ahhh… but there’s a perk! We are attending a secret music festival on one of the San Juan Islands. I say secret because if all of you realized how cool this music festival was you would want to come, too, then it would just be too big and not be very cool anymore.

Sorry, but that’s the way it is. You’re not invited.

The other night Bryan and I took the kids to a café in West Seattle where we met a friend and her kids. This café had live music and served the most amazing mocha I’ve ever had in my whole life. Or maybe I was just dying for some chocolate. At any rate, this café was very “kid friendly” and had games and coloring books on a little kid-sized table.

Once it got later and the place cleared out a bit we let Ruthie run around. I love watching her run. She reminds me of the bouncing head of an electric typewriter, running stiffly and quickly and bouncy while giggling like popping bubbles. She was, of course, barefoot. I never bother with socks anymore because who has the time to look for all the clothing that gets flung around? The shoes are bad enough to find.

I look forward to our vacation so I can see her running around like a busy typewriter, giggling, and growling ROAR at me from behind a chair. “Roar, mama! Roar!” And then, of course, I have to chase her around a tree and pretend to scare her. This will be a great weekend for her to be free, to be adventurous, and to be truly tuckered out.

So now I will stop writing and continue packing.

I heard a funny joke today:

"I heard Madonna and Cher had a falling-out. Yeah. Now they're no longer on a first name basis."

This Is Why You Should Never, EVER, Turn Your Back On a Two Year Old...Not Even For Just a MINUTE.

Hump Day

I love Wednesdays.

Wednesday is my favorite day of the week. Fridays are pretty cool, too. And Saturday is usually fun. Sunday ranks pretty high, being the Lord’s Day, but Wednesday is definitely my favorite day of the week.

On Wednesday I don my inner Ya-Ya persona with the ladies as our petite ya-yas flitter about from slide to pool to trampoline. I live for this day. I sleep in, I make pancakes, we eat leftovers for dinner, because on Wednesday mamma takes the day off!

I am a firm believer that everyone needs at least one friend. I had one friend for over ten years and she’s great. Really. She is still a very dear friend. But I’ve recently come to realize the benefits of a plurality of friends. A symphony, if you will, of girls who know me deeply. Girls who reassure me that I’m not a bad mother because I take Zoloft; who routinely offer me margaritas; who make me laugh until I pee; who love my kids so much they’re not afraid to open The Can when one gets out of line.

I find that any inclination I may have had on Tuesday to accidentally leave my children in the McDonald’s play land seems to dissipate on Thursday because of Wednesdays.

If you are reading this and you are having a bad day, turn off the computer and call a friend.

The Biting Incident

Yesterday Ruthie was bitten by a child who shall remain nameless.

This is ironic considering that not an hour before The Incident, the Vicious Biter’s mom and I were conversing about the evil nature of our toddlers.

For instance, over the weekend we took Ruthie on a special Thomas the Train ride with thousands of other toddlers, giving me the opportunity to compare my parenting outcomes with all the perfect parents who were in attendance with their perfect children.

I discovered that I am, quite honestly, a failure.

While other children sat contentedly in their seats, oohh-ing and awww-ing and pointing out the window, MY CHILD was the only one on the train attempting to hurl herself out the window so she could see better. I wanted to rip the belt off Bryan’s pants and strap her to the seat.

She is also evil to her friends. She will steal toys from her friends and stash them in drawers, or under pillows, or in boxes so The Victim cannot retrieve them and begins to scream. She then stands back to survey her handiwork as The Victim throws a level 4 fit right in front of her.

The other day she took an apple slice from one of her little minions, and when he came back to her in search of it, SHE ACTUALLY STOPPED CHEWING until he walked away! What have I created???

For this reason I am fully aware that that, although venting one’s frustration through biting is not appropriate, my Evil Blond Girl most likely provoked The Incident.

The Best $60 I Ever Spent

I showered today.

I have The Gate to thank for this. It has cast a magical spell over Ruthie, and she now sleeps until 9am every morning.

I can drink so much coffee, now, it almost gives me the shakes.

Foiled! or, You May Have Won the Battle But I Will Win the War!

Yesterday while shopping at a Target store, the heavens parted, the light shown down upon me, and I heard the angels singing, for I discovered EXTRA TALL SAFETY GATES THAT MOUNT TO THE WALL WITH SCREWS!!!

No more will Ruthie climb over the gate! No more will she push through until it becomes unwedged from the door frame! I will now enjoy my coffee in peace until an hour blessed by God himself.

I can smell the sanity brewing already.

Mobile Inspiration

So Bryan bought me this little pdf thingy last week to help me be more efficient. I was just excited to have a remote drive on which I could write. However, when I use the handwriting recognition feature it translates the first sentence of this post in this way: [ So Brian brojnt me' his etou pdf 1hinogy last week to help.we be more efficient.]

I'm not seeing the efficiency in that.

What it does allow me to do is discreetly surf the internet without Ruthie noticing as she watches Finding Nemo for the 42nd time.

We watch A LOT of Nemo. It's my crutch to get through the early morning wake up calls without sending Ruthie out to the curb for the weekly trash pick up.

Screw all those studies that say your children shouldn’t watch more than two hours of T.V. a year or whatever it is “they” say. Those people have never spent 24 hours with my lively, curious, and energetic two year old who also happens to like partying in the middle of the night. Sometimes mamma needs to help the little angel zone out for awhile so she can take a shower, drink a cup of coffee, or perhaps lie down and die.

Which brings me to my next point: 8:30am is a very dark time in the world of PBS. I spend all morning chasing the GOOD shows around our three different PBS stations – shows like Barney, Clifford, and Sesame Street. But 8:30 is the Black Hole of children’s television, leaving this mamma searching desperately through the channels for something -- ANYTHING -- so she doesn't have to hear the droning whines of the bratty Caillou.

It’ll be a miracle if my child manages to grow up with all her brain cells intact.

Writer's Block...again.

I think the Zoloft has numbed my mind. I may be able to cope, but can I still create? I can think of nothing to say.

Perhaps that’s a good thing.

Coldplay Is My Pink Floyd

For some reason I can only write while listening to Coldplay, and it needs to be played REALLY LOUD. And I mean, REALLY LOUD, like, the kind of loud where you can’t even hear the phone ring or your husband sneak up on you from behind. I think because all their songs sound the same they blend into the back room of my consciousness and drown out all the distractions in my head.

Currently I’m slightly buzzed on vodka and orange juice – just enough to make my lips numb and to make Coldplay sound REALLY GOOD. Sometimes I think I would make a great alcoholic because I’m a nicer person when I’m buzzed. I was just reading about the Comfort Zone of toddlers in The Girlfriend’s Guide to Toddlers – things like blankies, binkies, and thumb sucking – and I thought to myself, What if my Comfort Zone was a strong margarita? Would that be socially acceptable?

What if, when playground politics stressed me out or I thought there were monsters under my bed, what if I chucked the blankie aside and poured myself a stiff one. It sure does comfort me, and isn’t that the point?

The things that toddlers get away with….

Dreamland

Last night I had a disturbing dream that my house was overrun by hordes of people as if everybody in the entire world either lived or worked in my home. The house was so packed it was like a night club dance floor without the benefits of sweating away the calories. For some reason, in the midst of all this chaos I was trying to fill out some kind of form.

So I did what any mother knows to do when she can’t think to remember her own name… I shut myself in the bathroom.

But just as I thought I had a moment’s peace, people started barging in on me one by one to ask me questions. I wish I could remember now what those questions were, but all I remember is feeling like I wanted to launch an escape pod into outer space because at least out there I’d get some peace and quiet.

Ironically, the thing that woke me up out of this dream was my two-year-old crawling into bed with me. Again.

Pipe Dream

WARNING: The following post contains copious amounts of complaining. If such things annoy you please avert your eyes.

Ruthie has discovered the endless joys of bedtime torture that come with sleeping in a Big Girl Bed. I swear her butt is made of rubber because she bounces straight out of bed before you can say “Pour me a drink, the kids are in bed!”

As an introvert I find it quite disturbing to be around my children from 5am until after 9pm, day in and day out. It does things to me.

Tonight we happened to be at the Kleiner’s for dinner, and as we talked into the evening Ruthie grew quieter, then resorted to sucking her right thumb while playing with her left ear, until she actually began clawing at the front door and whined, “Home! Home! Home!”

“See Ruthie?” I exclaimed with great indignation. “Not so much fun when the shoe’s on the other foot, huh???”

Sometimes I wonder who the adult is in this relationship.

I just want things to go MY WAY. I want my kids to wake up smiling and perky at a healthy 8am, and I want their bathed and neatly pajama-ed bodies back in bed by 7pm, and I want them to ask for carrot sticks and apples for snacks, and I want them to say, “Okay mom!” when I yell at them to not run into the street.

Is that so much to ask?

Father's Day

Yesterday morning when Ruthie and I came downstairs (Bryan is a very early riser), I whispered in her ear to tell Daddy, "Happy Father's Day!"

She very shyly tiptoed up to him and said in such a dainty, quiet voice, "...fart day."

Then she gave him a hug.

Drunkard's Prayer

Linford Detweiler and Karin Bergquist of the band Over the Rhine canceled their national tour for the OHIO album a couple years ago because the stress of their work was taking a toll on their marriage. They stated in the liner notes of their most recent album, Drunkard's Prayer, that they needed time to figure out if being together was something they were still committed to.

“When we came home from the tour,” they wrote, “we bought two cases of wine and decided we were going to put a bottle on the kitchen table every evening and start talking until nothing was left. The idea was not to get plowed, but to talk face to face deep into the night.”

Out of that experience came the song, Born, plus a whole host of other beautiful melodies on Drunkard’s Prayer.

Two kids, depression, his career, and pastoring a church on the side has taken a toll on us. We are broken, and I feel as if nothing can fix us.

Religion says God will fix us, but the Bible says I am arrogant and stubborn and must let go of my anger.

Religion says God will make me feel better, but the Bible says I need to humble myself and ask Bryan to forgive me.

Religion says I deserve to be happy, but the Bible says we are children of grace who have been given a new voice to praise the Most High God.

I am nobody. I am a lump of clay who shakes her fist at the potter.

I’m tired. I give up. I will let go of my resolve and listen for the Still Voice to whisper again to me – I hope I can remember what He sounds like.

Sleep Deprived

I used to wake up every morning at 6am, enjoy a quiet cup of coffee with my husband, then spend a couple hours working on the computer before my daughter woke up.

Now she wakes me up around 4:30 or 5:00 each morning with her obnoxiously cheery "Hi, Mamma!"

I can't even begin to describe how grouchy I am when I have to engage before my morning cup of coffee.

I used to be excited to see my daughter come bursting through the door to the kitchen in the morning. She would always strike a certain pose as she slammed the door shut behind her, and it reminded me of Christopher Reeve’s Superman. Now when I see her eyes peering at me just over the mattress of my bed I get a seething clench of dread in my chest. Not the kind of warm fuzzies we mothers want to have about our children.

I am a mean person when I am sleep deprived – a point which my two-year-old has not yet clued into, but would benefit greatly from knowing.

These days when I consume my morning cup of coffee, I am standing in the middle of my kitchen with squinty eyes watching cable news -- or Barney, depending on which one of us has the stronger will that morning – while Ruthie eats her bowl of cereal and I periodically shush her for trying to talk to me.

Disoriented, I have vague memories of silence, of birds chirping, of that still in the air as the sun begins to rise. I wonder what the heck I was thinking, spending those precious mornings doing something so stupid as paying bills or returning emails when I could have been writing, or reading, or sleeping for crying out loud.

I now believe that an organized life is overrated. I do what I can, but if you come to my house and find balls of dog hair floating across the hardwood floors and dirty dishes in my sink you won’t see a look of apology on my face, because that means I had a nap today, which means I won’t bite your nose off when you try to talk to me.

"Fix You"
by Coldplay
from the X&Y album

When you try your best, but you don't succeed
When you get what you want, but not what you need
When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse
When the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone, but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

High up above or down below
When you too in love to let it go
If you never try you'll never knowJust watch and learn

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

How to Survive the I-Don’t-Give-a-Fuck Blues

My life has become so overwhelming that I just don’t give a fuck anymore. I’m not talking about the suicidal version of not giving a fuck, I’m more of the version where you don’t shower for days, the laundry is piled up on the spare bed, and household budgeting is reduced to crossing your fingers and hoping there’s money in the account whenever you swipe the debit card.

I watch my two year old daughter as she plays, and if it doesn’t involve tormenting the dog by hiding her chew toys in out of reach places, it usually involves some sort of domestic work. Ruthie loves to sweep, and if she was about five pounds heavier she would love to push the vacuum around, too. She’ll spend oodles of time caring for her doll, laying her down on a clean blanket, lifting her legs in the air, wiping the doll’s ass, and she’ll even attempt to put a real diaper on it. Don’t even get me started on her obsession with cleaning surfaces with a wash cloth – she will intentionally spill water just so she can clean it up.

It’s funny how, at two years old, we loved to do these things. Tea parties were fun and we got dressed up in our white gloves and garden hats.

At what point does this all become a horribly dreaded chore? When does the joy become divorced from the task? Does Bree find any more pleasure in her daily grind than Lynette, or does she simply suppress the dread more cleverly?

I never meant for life to be so complicated. Was I just being naive? Is complication inevitable? Have I allowed too much to enter my life or is this the way it’s supposed to be?

I really felt that as a single person I was pretty non-romantic about the way life would be with a husband and kids. The extent of my fantasy was that my kids would sit quietly in the family room as we watched some brainy show on t.v. like Nova or Frontline, and we would have long and interesting conversations about the Milky Way Galaxy or the Kennedy assassination conspiracy theories. One season of King of the Hill and Celebrity Poker Showdown nipped that dream in the bud.

So instead of the tea party and white glove dream, I over-multi-task my day in order to get it all done to the point where I scream at my kids, they cry, and my daughter learns to say, “Mommy, sit! Mommy, sit!” And even THAT annoys me.

I just want it to stop. If it’s not possible to lay in bed all day with the covers over my head, then how do I get motivated to get up in the morning? How do I face the piles of paperwork and laundry and dishes and blah blah blah? If I choose to lower my standards and just let some things slide, will I be a Christian who sucks?

The Christian Culture says to “let go and let God,” that we find joy in our work because we are doing so unto the Lord, that serving my husband and children is a role I need to cherish. I know there are verses for all that.

But what the fuck does that mean when I can’t get out of bed?

Am I a Christian who sucks if my husband can’t find any clean underwear? Am I a Christian who sucks if the unopened mail is stacking up on the dining room table? Am I a Christian who sucks if I don’t get the dishwasher emptied until four in the afternoon?

Do I need to repent? Does anyone have a users manual that will tell me HOW to “let go and let God” and make it all happen?

I’m not asking for bon bons and soap opras, but there has got to be a way to do the things that need to be done while still enjoying my life and my daughter. Currently I feel as if I have to make a choice between nurturing my daughter and getting things done. Any parent who’s been there knows how demanding a two-year-old can be, and as I read more on the subject of raising toddlers, the more I feel comforted that I’m not alone.

As of late, if given the choice between resting or getting something done when I have both the kids napping at the same time, I choose REST. I put my feet up, grab a book, and if the gods are smiling on me I get to snooze for 20 minutes.

Does that make me a lazy Christian who sucks? To which I say, I don’t give a fuck.

Helper

My two year old daughter loves to help me. For instance, yesterday morning I was pulling weeds in the garden when she came up behind me with a pair of my gardening gloves on, and began pulling up the alyssum in the garden’s border.

“Help!” She kept saying over and over again, as she struggled to grab something through the huge gloves with her tiny fingers.

Normally I would’ve thought that to be so adorable, but I was nine months pregnant at the time and was simply trying to feel like I was accomplishing something in order to satisfy a ferocious nesting urge that my large and off-balance body was not cooperating with. In short, my patience was thin.

I tried to distract her with a broom, asking her to “help” mamma by sweeping the walkway, but she was only interested in the broom when I was the one sweeping with it.

I have to admit I do feel a twinge of guilt for being so irritated with her for wanting to “help” me with everything. After all, when we first saw the ultrasound and learned Ruthie was a girl, all I could think of were the many ways I would be able to teach and disciple my daughter to be a godly woman, a hard-working woman, a woman capable of making her home warm and hospitable.

From the very beginning Ruthie has been an observer and a clean freak. She has her own set of wash cloths now so she can clean off her own booster seat tray. When she spills water from her cup she runs to the kitchen to find a towel and wipes up her mess. When she finds discarded mail or scraps of paper on the floor she picks them up and carries them to the trash can in the kitchen, and just the other day she placed a stray section of the newspaper in the recycling basket.

Bryan calls her obsessive compulsive. I think she’s brilliant.

I know this is cliché mom-speak, but I am terrified at how much of my behavior she mimics. She pays attention to what I do and learns from me. When I lose my patience and am harsh with her, the sad look on her face breaks my heart. Her sad little face is God’s conviction for me, my conscience.

“Mamma was wrong to react that way, Ruthie,” I said at one point yesterday. “I’m sorry.”

Ruthie looked me in the eye, then leaned forward and gave me a hug, and I knew she understood.

And that was profound to me.

Writer's Block

I’ll be honest: resolution gives me writer’s block.

As an introvert, I write to process through the fog in my mind. Once the wave has swelled and spilled over onto the beach I can think of nothing else to say. To recap how high the wave became, what kind of splash it produced, and how far it creeped onto the beach is to report – and I am not a reporter.

Gordy has died.

Despite his having cancer, his death still came as a surprise to me. Not in the sense that I was denying the seriousness of his illness, but in the sense that just one week prior to his death he had been visiting relatives and eating lutefisk.

There was a funeral; there was family drama; and there were unspoken territories marked. But to recap that today seems like reporting.

And I am not a reporter.

Perhaps someday I will process through what all this has meant. Maybe I will even explore why it seems my grieving has died with Gordy.

But for now it is all behind me, and as much as I try to poetically script my thoughts into poignant essays, it all comes out as mere recorded events.

And I am not a reporter.

So I will quit trying, and let the grief catch up to me again.

All My Tears

Just today I received word that the cancer in Gordy's lung has continued to grow. It has taken over half the lung, his lymph nodes, and possibly spread into his liver. He is very weak, and according to my mom, Gordy says he feels like he's dying.

The doctors have narrowed his time with us down to weeks... maybe a couple months.

Ironically... or perhaps not... I was listening to Emmylou Harris this morning in the quiet before my daughter awoke, and the lyrics to one of her songs caught my ear. I've listened to her music over and over, and this song is not new to me. However, it usually remains in the meditative backround as I write or work.

This morning, before I knew of the saddening news of my beloved, God called my attention to the loving grace of knowing him and trusting him to receive our loved ones in death.

All My Tears
by Julie Miller

When I go don't cry for me
In my father’s arms I'll be
The wounds this world left on my soul
Will all be healed and I'll be whole

Sun and moon will be replaced
With the light of Jesus' face
And I will not be ashamed
For my savior knows my name

It don't matter where you bury me
I'll be home and I'll be free
It don't matter where I lay
All my tears be washed away

Gold and silver blind the eye
Temporary riches lie
Come and eat from heaven's store
Come and drink and thirst no more

So weep not for me my friend
When my time below does end
For my life belongs to him
Who will raise the dead again

It don't matter where you bury me
I'll be home and I'll be free
It don't matter where I lay
All my tears be washed away

Peace

Have you ever felt like a sermon preached by a pastor was aimed right at you?

That he spent all week thinking about you, your life, your issues, then said to himself, “I’m going to preach a sermon for her?”

This morning’s sermon – preached by Pastor Mike -- seemed particularly powerful to me. Again, there’s a lot of hormones running through my pregnant body these days which tends to cause crying over just about anything, but he really seemed to hit on some things I’ve been pondering.

From the time Gordy’s cancer went really downhill – when the tumors were found in his brain and the reality check in my head said this was the beginning of the end – I began to feel numb.

At least what I thought I felt was numbness, but the more I began to think about the Christian’s role in death the more I realized that what I felt was peace.

In Philippians 1:20-21 Paul says, “I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that now as always Christ will be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death. For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.”

Pastor Mike punctuated that passage by saying that in life we live FOR Christ, and in death we live WITH Christ.

Do we as believers value that Biblical Truth? Do I value that Truth?

Of course I don’t want Gordy to die. I want him to live so my children can grow up and know what a kind, gentle, and giving man he is. I want my children to know the man God used to restore me from a bitter and confused childhood. I want more time with him, to be teased by him, to be irritated by him at times for still seeing me as the teenager I was when I left home, to show him what kind of mom I’ve become because he loved me so unconditionally.

I grieve everything I will lose in his death.

But in death, he will gain so much.

And that is what I believe has given me peace.

When Simeon saw the baby Jesus at the temple on the day of his dedication, just eight days old, he said, “Sovereign Lord, as you have promised, you now dismiss your servant in peace. For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the sight of all people, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel” (Luke 2:29-32).

Simeon was an old man who had waited his entire life for God’s promise of a savior to come, and when he saw the Christ child he knew the fulfillment of this Promise had been delivered, and he could die in peace.

How much more should we be at peace with death, since we know the end of the story. We know that Christ conquered death so we would not be mastered by it.

God is not like the plumber who was scheduled to work on my house, who postponed twice, then on the third appointment he never came and never called. He overbooked, or lost his calendar, or forgot to pencil me in, or misplaced my phone number, or whatever his excuse. I don’t know, because he never said. To this day he remains unseen and unheard. Needless to say, he will never work on my plumbing because I will now find a new plumber.

God shows up. God is with us. God is comforting me in my grief, and he is comforting Gordy as he travels on.

Waiting

Before we decided to not hire a contractor to remodel our basement, we actually did hire the tall and loud contractor team that was in our home the night I found out Gordy had cancer. He was supposed to draw up the plans, submit them to the city for permitting, and get started on the project within a few weeks.

What I learned, and what I’m sure everyone who has undertaken a remodeling project has learned, is that these things never go as planned.

I bought a plane ticket on a Friday to leave for Minnesota that Sunday afternoon in May – Mother’s Day 2004. I took Ruthie with me but didn’t get her a seat, hoping she would sleep in my arms, which she did – for about half an hour.

I think that was the longest flight in my life for more than one reason.

Gordy was in round two of his six rounds of chemotherapy. My visit coincided with the “good” week of the three-week cycle. Since his cancer treatment began, the concept of a “good” week or a “good” day has taken on a new meaning for me.

Gordy’s hair began to fall out while I was there. Not that any of us are insensitive enough to care that he is bald, but the hair loss is a visual reminder of the illness. Once you see his bare head you know, you are reminded -- even if he is having a “good” strong day where he seems to be his old self – the illness can’t be ignored.

I was very grateful for that visit, for that window into the early days of his fight against the imperfection and unfairness of our corrupt life on Earth. It made me think a lot about Adam and Eve and the blissful life they led, naked in the garden. How nice that would be today.

Back then, in May 2004, my mom was very optimistic about the future. I wanted to be optimistic, but something inside me left me heavy and foreboding. I hated the waiting, the wondering, the questions left unanswered. It drove me crazy that The Doctors didn’t give percentages or prognoses, that they didn’t say, “If you do X, the outcome will be Y.”

I felt like that’s all we did that summer – waited. Six times, over the course of four and a half months, for three days in a row each time, nurses would inject powerful chemicals into Gordy’s veins.

And we would wait.

And we waited all summer, wondering what would happen.

I called home several times during that visit. The contractors were supposed to start their work while I was away, but we had heard nothing from them in over a week. I began to worry that he was flaking on us, and was grateful we hadn’t given him any money yet. Bryan sent a terse email requesting that he update us on the project, and he finally responded. He was waiting on word from the city regarding the permits, and would get started as soon as those came in.

So we waited for that as well.

The words of Psalm 40 came to mind: “I waited patiently for the Lord, he turned to me and heard my cry.” I wondered what it looked like to wait patiently, and what it looked like for God to hear my cry. Would the bad things go away? Or would I just feel comforted in the midst of the bad things? And was I wrong to feel that being comforted was worse than being delivered?

I was not afraid to ask these questions of God. But like The Doctors, God does not always give percentages or if/then statements.

I felt comforted then, and continue to feel comforted. And now it seems that deliverance by my definition is not to come. But I do not feel wronged by God, only that I am to continue to wait, and that he continues to hear my cry.

Although I'm still not sure what that looks like.

Flashback to April

I had a team of contractors in my house when I found out the spot on Gordy's lung was cancer. They were tall and loud and made my house seem small, but they liked my dog and thought my daughter was cute so we started off splendidly.

I don't think I ever suspected the spot would be cancer. Perhaps it was denial, or maybe I didn't let myself worry until there was something to worry about, or maybe it was denial. It seems that no matter how well you know the Capital T Truth of who God is and how he operates, one still has a tendency to believe good people will go through life relatively unscathed. Maybe that's why Christ commands in Matt 5 for us to love our enemies, because the rain falls on both the righteous and the wicked.

You'd think after 33 years on this earth I would clue in to the weather patterns of God. It's not like the Zoloft commercials on TV where the rain cloud follows the individual blob around while the rest of the blobs are having a great time sipping cocktails. No, in God's weather patterns wicked people can be successful and righteous people can struggle.

This concept never really bothered me much until a family member was caught up in a hurricane. Then it kind of pissed me off. Then it kind of worried me that it pissed me off so much. Then I became less pissed and more trusting of Things I Don't Understand. Then I began to feel a Star Wars-like force field around my thoughts because that pissed-off thing never happened again.

I remember that the most frequently asked questions I had during those first weeks were "Why?" and "What does that mean?" The first question I continually asked of God. The second was usually in response to my mom's report on the latest CAT scan or visit to Dr. Duane. The second question usually implied -- at least in my mind -- secondary questions such as "What will make this go away?"

If only it were that easy.

The tall and loud contractors left my house, finally, but we never hired them even though they liked my dog and thought my daughter was cute. In fact, we decided to not hire a contractor at all, but have the work completed as smaller, more manageable task projects. It will be a labor of love requiring patience, and a lot of tolerance for Things Left Undone.

How appropriate.

Virgin Post

Being that I love to write, that I never have time to write, that I therefore never do write, and that there are many people who would like me to write, I saw the wisdom in setting up a blog.

Now, there are only a few things I know about blogs:

a) I can write something once for everyone to read -- no more multiple email updates!

b) you can reply to what I write and tell me I'm the wisest person you know, or that I'm completely full of bologna, or that you like cheese toast.

c) in a particularly stressful time for my family, we can all communicate in one forum without the round-robin of phone calls or technically challenged email users.

However, d) this may be the most important to note -- this will be posted on the world wide web, which makes it possible for the whole wide world to know our business.

Point d) can be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on who you are and what you post, so keep that in mind.

All that being said, I'm now feeling a bit gun-shy about writing in a forum. I liken it to two respectable ladies entering a public restroom at the same time, who each enters her own toilet stall, then sits in complete silence while waiting for the other to make the first tinkle. So perhaps I won't dive in just now with all of my thoughts and musings on grief, healing, and faith. But know that as of late these thoughts are always with me, and I have missed sharing them with my pen and paper.

So this is my Big Step for the day -- to commit to writing again -- and I have the community of the World Wide Web to keep me accountable to that commitment. Please, go easy on me -- I'm a virgin blogger.