Beyond First Impressions

Life's Bounty

2010-06-27T20:54:00.003-04:00

I've been moping tonight, facing with reluctance the Monday morning return to work after a week's vacation. I am blessed with extraordinary work--I cannot argue with this--but it is still hard sometimes to walk away from the gifts that come with life at home. We've taken a dive into summer this week--literally--with seven straight days of swimming in pools of friends or our beloved town, and I have been reminded that I. Love. Summer. I might have been born in January, but in my heart I'm all June, July, and August!

In the midst of my moping, I read a headline about a housefire that killed six children in a tiny village where dear friends grew up, and where we still have ties. While we didn't know this particular family, their tragedy certainly drew me to a stop in my "woe is me" routine. Life is beautiful, and seems extremely short no matter its length; tonight I'm going to keep my mind on the pool rather than tomorrow's awaiting desk, enjoying the summer these children and their family now won't have.

A seminary professor shared a story of a man who stood outside the gates of eternity, clinging to a pocketful of dirt from his homeland, reluctant to let it go so as to enter heaven. When at last he released the dirt he had brought along for the journey, he passed through the gates and discovered the whole of his homeland before his eyes. As I think of these poor children, perished entirely too soon in an accident beyond their knowing or control, I am hoping that an eternity of summers has already greeted them, and that they are diving off diving boards into pools that go on forever. May life eternal be the whole of the goodness of this world.

This week has indeed been a taste of all that is good, and here are just a few bright spots:

*First, the comic: In writers' workshop Lucas and his kindergarten friends both write and illustrate stories of their lives. I was pouring through Lucas's work from this past year when I discovered a set of stories about a recent school vacation. Underneath his own "sounded-out" spelling his teacher often wrote a translated version of his work. One picture of the dog and our living room was created with our son's usual attention to detail, and below I could read (through my own sounding-out), "I got Ty to the couch." Knowing how our dog, Ty, obeys (or not!), this was no small accomplishment for the youngest in the house. The translation by his teacher was the highlight of the story, though. "I got tied to the couch." Hmmmm....wondering why the principal didn't call to follow up on that one!

*Second, the sentimental: Lucas turned six this week, and the passage of birthdays is always an opportunity for me to revisit my birth stories, revisit the incredible people my children have become, and revisit my own decision to be a parent. I must be wearing this reflection on my very skin as a woman at church this morning turned to me and said, "It gives me so much joy to see how you attend to your son with such love and affection." I hope she sees the same when I'm with my daughter (this morning Lucas and I happened to be teamed up for a trust exercise during the children story), and that she will have this sense of me long after this blissful week of vacation concludes. They are my greatest joy, and with all of the pride and sense of acclaim/accomplishment that comes from my work, I hope don't lose sight of this most important role and purpose. They are growing so incredibly fast. Kyra learned last week that she has no more baby teeth remaining....at eight years old! How on earth have we concluded the tooth fairy visits already? Her feet are nearly my size, and she will be looking me in the eye in another two summers. I love these amazing kids.

*Third, the practical: I took an email-free vacation and delighted in being more attentive to myself, the kids, Matt, the world at large. I'm still contemplating how to return to my day to day life with the gift of the realization that very little of actual importance is pleading for my attention with those beeping messages and buzzing phones. I think I'll make a rule of "emergency use only" for the cell phone when at the beach or the pool. I was free to say "YES!" to so many more of the kids' requests because my attention wasn't elsewhere. This "yes" is a gift to all of us.

Ah, summer....camping trips ahead, summer vacation on the Cape, beach-bound destinations with our newest sand-eating nephew. It is really the bounty of life, this season of sun and surf. I feel grateful for every moment of it--clothes on the line, dinners on the screened-in porch, too-late bedtimes for too-tired parents and kids, and fireflies peeking out at me around every corner. Bring on the homemade ice cream, and let the games begin!

Shabbat Shalom

2010-03-19T21:53:00.003-04:00

Every Wednesday evening this semester I'm sitting at Hartford Seminary in "Holiness in Time and Space: A Jewish Approach to Spirituality." My original intention was connected, in part, to my current work as a program director at a university with a substantive Jewish population. In the back of my mind, the part of me that contemplate(s/d) college and university chaplaincy was seeking to legitimize my own potential service in such a community. What I did not anticipate learning was how to give myself a holy day off....today.

Last week's readings were entirely about the shabbat celebration, the part-family, part-community celebration that begins eighteen minutes before sundown on Friday night and continues until three stars are spotted in the Saturday night sky. From movies and television, the various prohibitions in this time period are fairly well-known--no flipping a light switch, no pressing an elevator button, no carrying, no hammering to conclude a household project, no writing, and so on. What the readings introduced me to, though, was the profound, beautiful purpose for the day and these prohibitions. Shabbat is not so much a day of rest, but rather a day to cease from creative labors (the exhortation to make love on Friday nights seems a bit curious as this is certainly creative labor!)--it is a day of peace and tranquility created intentionally by God on the seventh day of the mythical creation story. Shabbat is a day to literally "try on" eternity, trusting that the undone work does not even require your mental attention, much less your active effort. In eternity, the work of God is already completed--and we are invited in small doses to step into the bliss of this longed-for reality.

While my own explanation here does not do justice to the beautiful books we read for the class, I take pleasure in knowing that as I type there are hundreds of thousands of people around the world sitting with candles lit, blessing their children, and singing the songs of peace and joy that they intend to sing for all eternity. When I decided to take the day off today to join Matt and the kids (who were home from school for a teachers' professional day), I decided to create my own purpose-filled prohibitions--no checking work email, no contemplating work or what I would need to do on Monday, no worrisome thoughts. While our day can hardly compare with the traditional shabbat celebration, we did fill it with rituals of pleasure for our family--a long morning hike in the hills of Connecticut, a visit to the CT Science Center, and an evening of breaking bread and drinking wine with good friends and their children. On this last day of winter, we rejoiced in wearing short sleeves and turning a bit pink in the sun from too much outdoor exposure. It was heavenly--truly a taste of what is to come.

...and to know that tomorrow is Saturday? Another day off? And then Sunday to follow? Ahhhhh....the simple pleasures in life are overflowing as fast as the river is overflowing its banks in these rain-filled weeks. Let the flood plains be prepared to catch and hold this goodness!

A love letter

2010-02-14T18:48:00.005-05:00

Dear Lucas and Kyra,

You're at Auntie's house tonight, a Valentine's Day gift for us and for you. You love visiting her house, and I hope you will always see the homes of your extended family as a happy extension of your home here. Right about now you are getting into the bathtub and, if Auntie is the superstar we know her to be, you might even spend a few minutes publishing (typing) your story, Kyra, and reading from an early reader library book, Lucas. Auntie already mentioned how amazed she is that you can read! We're amazed, too, and love every moment of your learning.

We spent the afternoon at The Lion King here in Hartford--what a glorious show, even from the balcony! Kyra, you were taking it in through the binoculars, repeating the play by play to Daddy, not so much to explain to him what was happening, but to prove to him that you understood it all. Eight must be the perfect age for a show, as I think five-year-old Lucas would have happily left at the intermission. The stage version plays down the battles and adds a fair amount to the human-relational element, so you were struggling to hang on, Lucas. You were on my lap for the whole show and, despite the fidgets, it was the longest stretch I have spent with you in a long time. I wouldn't give up a minute!

I was wishing last night for some time to spend on your baby book, Lucas--you lost your second tooth this week (now both those top two teeth are out), and they are coming out so quickly, we can't even remember the details of each loss anymore. Some day you'll open that baby book and wonder about all those gaps and holes (and not gaps and holes from the toothless pictures I should be taking!). Know that the gaps are not there because we don't notice--rather, I think we spend our full energy on the noticing in the moment, and leave nothing for the documentation. This blog post is my (weak) attempt to let you know, "We see you." Truly, we do, and Daddy and I spend some part of every day marveling at who you are becoming.

We need to find you a gymnastics class, as you love to swing between the dining room wall and chairs (parallel bars, anyone?), and at the present moment you are fascinated with all things Star Wars, thanks to your ever-expanding Lego collection. In your best moments, you and Kyra are best pals, running from the tower of Lego bins in your room to the basement for lacrosse and basketball. Of course there's also the pleas each morning to play on the computer or watch a program on television. We do notice you, and wish often we could freeze moments in time to capture an image of your toothless smile, your determination as you attempted ice skating just a week or two ago (succeeding in only 40 minutes to be a comfortable, eager skater!), and of course your concentration as you draw one of your remarkable works of art.

Kyra, the other night I pulled open your school drawer and was stunned to see a page of cursive words. Your handwriting looked so grown-up, as though I was peering at the work of a teenager, rather than an eight-year-old. You had recently tucked in the mark sheet for your "Moving to Mexico" Social Studies collage. Undoubtedly either Daddy or I had recycled the grading rubric, not realizing how important it was to mark this moment when you set out to get "meets expectations" and walked home with "excels." It's hard for me to believe that we are already at the age where we lose sleep together for homework projects. Third grade has been a big year for you. You've excelled with your teacher; you are happy every single day to be back with your best friend Lilia, and you read every book you can put your hands on. They know you almost as well at the library as we know you at home! I also love that you're learning how to play the piano and how to notate music on a score at church. I announced today that I love that you have homework from church--church homework??!! Who would have thought? As with every assignment, you take it on with your usual sense of responsibility and focus.

I hope some of your "good student" energy can rub off on me! It's time for me to get back to the paper I'm writing--a not-unfamiliar scene after you head to bed each night and on the weekends. I hope some day I can be in school when you're in school, and enjoy the evenings even more with you and Daddy. This will come at some point, I expect. For now, I'm going to soak up all I can from the days and nights that we have. You bring joy to every one of them!

I love you. Happy Valentine's Day.

Mommy

Of silly kids and sunsets....

2009-11-20T10:00:00.004-05:00

We use clothespins to keep our many boxes of cereal fresh, and the kids were enthralled one recent morning to discover the hairstyles they could create! Here's little Lucas with his braids. I'm torn between whether he looks like an Orthodox Jewish man or Pippi Longstocking!

I look at this picture and see only the pain of getting those clothespins out!

This particular night's pink sky was enough to drag even me from my workplace stupor out into the backyard. It was just stunning...

I believe I can fly!

Overheard

2009-11-07T09:32:00.002-05:00

It's Saturday morning and I'm the last one out of bed--middle of the night reading, once again, after the dog had a nightmare that woke me. The kids are playing happily, peacefully, semi-quietly....it is so, so nice.

They often play "Jack and Luc" while they are home together--an opportunity for both of them to step into an alter-ego that is oddly like their own, but it seems a necessary game, nonetheless. They are running around the house with old cell phones from which we've removed the batteries, building lego creations, and tormenting the dog when he will let them.

"Luc" just called out, "Hey Jack--I'm going to download." Um....sure....whatever that means! Ah, youth!

Happy Halloween!

2009-10-31T20:46:00.002-04:00

A skeleton and vampire head out to the full moon on a spooktacular Halloween evening! Truly fun time--a party at our neighbor's house, and then traipsing around in the (drizzly) balmy weather for bags full of candy. Now the kids are SOUND asleep and Matt and I get to paw through their treats bags to see what was really intended for the parents. Nah....we'll just have popcorn! Happy night, all!

...it went BEEEEEP!

2009-09-10T11:02:00.003-04:00

I arrived to a distressing message this morning at work. Despite two upgrades to my voicemail system to provide enhanced "save" capacity, I had once again reached my limit....my mailbox was full. What were all these saved messages? Desperate grantees awaiting news on their funds? Frustrated administrators wondering why we didn't support their pet projects? Of course not! It was three years worth of truly heart-breaking and love-shaping messages from my favorite two kids and their awesome dad!

I love hearing their coming-of-age voices, Lucas's two year old lisp far more pronounced than it is now at five; Kyra's sass and spunk well-established by the time she moved here at five herself. I managed to save a few--one very sad Lucas muttering/crying out a message about missing me that morning because I left for work before he woke up. Of course I also saved a favorite Kyra message--a long stretch of silence, and then the sound of Kyra calling out to Matt, "....it went BEEEEEEP!" She then announced that they had snow at home--only twenty minutes away, so I expect we had snow, too, but you wouldn't know it from her "first child ever in the white stuff" tone of excitement! Gosh I love these kids....

There were two favorite messages from colleagues, as well, and I reluctantly let them go. One was from a now retired administrator for one of our vice presidents. She called to let me know that she and another colleague enjoy my voice so much that they avoid emailing me and always call instead--in the hopes of catching the real me, but still happy to just hear the calm, soothing reassurance of my voicemail message! They were contemplating inviting me to create a campuswide message that could settle anxious spirits, or something of the sort. The second was from my then and now board chair, a woman I admire greatly. She indicated she was calling from the White House to offer me a role in the State Department--apparently I managed a board situation so smoothly, she believed my diplomatic skills could serve the world! Joking aside, I was touched by her recognition of my gifts, as these are her gifts as well.

The messages from the kids were a reminder that I have provided for them for years, offering not only the financial support to have a home in a modest, safe, friendly neighborhood, but also providing them and Matt with the opportunity to be together in this phase of life. Whereas once it was my voice in the background on voicemail messages Matt was hoping desperately to save, the voice that surrounds them is now his. I am the one at work. Sadness was one possible response, but I felt only gratitude--that I have had the gifts and the wisdom both to provide this time. And of course a couple of work messages tossed in helped me to see that this has been a place for my gifts to grow and better the world, too.

Will it always be this way? I hope not. I'd like to greet them off the school bus for a day or two each week, and have a little more space to take that voice and that gift of diplomacy "on the road" for the betterment of new people and communities. But for now, I know "it is what it is," and it is okay. It is good.

Let Olive be Olive....

2009-07-12T22:14:00.007-04:00

I still remember the first time I saw the movie "Little Miss Sunshine," a treat for myself during the time I was living in CT while Matt and the kids were still in MA. I went on the recommendation of my new friend and colleague, Penny. (I lived with Penny during the week, returning home on weekends; the generous offer of this arrangement still astounds me.)

I was fretting about Kyra--about my sense that the world might not always welcome her as we welcome her. I feared (and sometimes still fear) that the world might not be ready to appreciate a girl who would rather play pirates than princess, shops in the "boy" department of every store we enter, and is bound and determined to move through the world as who she is....not who the world would have her to be. In truth, I don't know whether I more feared the world's rejection of her, or the painful possibility that she might mold herself increasingly to receive the world's acceptance.

Anyway, Penny listened patiently to my fretting and then said, "You just have to see this movie. There is this scene where everyone is trying to talk this child's mother out of letting her daughter perform in a way they expect will embarrass the child. She insists that she will not squelch her daughter's desire to go through with the performance. She insists that they all must 'let Olive be Olive'. You'll see....you just have to let Kyra be Kyra." And so I went, and became as enthralled with Olive and her family as I am with my own girl. It remains one of the most cathartic movies I have ever seen.

I haven't thought about the movie in quite some time, but it came back to me this week with the astonishing and terribly sad news that Penny died last Saturday. There's a great deal of mystery involved, and I'm reluctant to subject her story to the scrutiny that can come from sharing too publicly. The simple facts are these: Penny was sick with cancer and she chose not to treat her illness or to share news of it with anyone in her life. All of us who knew and appreciated her are now forced to contend with the challenge of "letting Penny be Penny" when she has made a choice that cannot be undone and that so grieves all of us. But since she always had the wisdom to encourage me to give the people I love the space to live out their choices, I am working to honor her and her choices. Is there pain in this? Absolutely. But is there truth? Yes indeed.

I was thinking about Penny tonight, as I have been since last Monday when I heard the news, and I was reflecting on the healing passage of time. We visited today with my mother's sister. She is so like my memories of who my mother was; it is pure joy to be with her. She passed to me a gift that has been intended for me for more than thirty years--and one I had entirely forgotten! She gave to me my grandmother's garnet ring, purchased when she was dying, with the intention that it would go next to her daughter, my aunt, and one day, to me. She thought it was time, and wanted to share it while she was alive to see my joy in having it. There aren't words for me to smoothly and beautifully link this ring and the hopes and dreams placed in it all those years ago with how I am feeling about Penny, but the energy of both these experiences mingles within me tonight.

In this spirit of the give and the take of life, I came upon a poem/song I began while we were in FL in April. I wrote it after watching Kyra stare down an angry sea--or better yet, after watching Kyra nearly beat down an angry sea with her fists! I was filled with the "beyond words" sense of the give and take of the life she will live, and this is what poured out. Rough, yes, but also something true!

She stands before me on the shore
Arms raised in a show of muscle.
Fists clenched with might, smile of delight
Inviting the full roar

Of a power and love contained within,
A cycle far beyond us.
Sensing here in this wash of water
A never-ending promise

Refrain:
Oh, the world is an ocean full of waves
That some days knock you down
But if you find deep within you that girl at the sea,
You'll land on solid ground.

As I watch you grow in pleasure and pain
There are days I long to hold you
Safe once more in this mother's arms
A child so small and new.

But even then you were growing toward
This voice that calls you home.
The hands and feet knit together in me
Bound for days of sand and foam.

Refrain:
Oh, the world is an ocean full of waves
That some days knock you down
But if you find deep within you that girl at the sea,
You'll land on solid ground.

Rest in peace, Penny. We miss you on this shore....

FIVE YEARS AGO???

2009-06-23T21:49:00.002-04:00

It is so incredibly hard for me to believe that this big boy came into our lives five whole years ago....but harder still to imagine there was ever a time without him! Happy birthday to our precious son!

Celebrating what's right....

2009-05-18T11:00:00.004-04:00

Our family enjoyed a church retreat this weekend, filled with thought-provoking conversation, rocking music (as a founding member of the newly-formed praise band, I say this with a great deal of bias acknowledged!), and a sense of our church as "home" that has been eluding me of late. It was a gift, and I will treasure it as such.

On Friday evening of this retreat, we watched a short film entitled "Celebrate What's Right with the World." Narrated by a National Geographic photographer, the film depicts the patience, the sense of expectation, and the trust entailed in seeing a "great frame" where at first glance what comes is a "good frame." The images in the film are stunning, the words profound, and I find myself looking at my own life in a new lens. Let me offer just a few of my thoughts on what is right this morning!

*The chilly night resulted in both kids tumbling into our bed early this morning for warmth and togetherness. I'm grateful that I was (mainly) able to receive them in love and gratitude, and that I had this little treasure of small, sleeping bodies to put my life in perspective before heading off to work.

*I am visiting a new chiropractor who I love, and so of course I am grateful to return to this commitment of wellness. One of the bonuses about the office location? It sits just above a Subway restaurant, and each morning when I make my way into the office, I take a deep, strong pull of the air and celebrate the aroma of BREAD! YUM!

*My dad is in the hospital this morning for reasons as yet unknown. I'm grateful for cell phones that allow us to keep in communication, and for my sense that a simple prayer for him with each call is more powerful than anything else I could offer.

*Have I mentioned that I am the luckiest woman in the world? Matt and I are reading aloud "Coop," the latest by Mike Perry, Matt's favorite writer. This gift of evenings burrowed on the love seat under a comforter as we travel together to the wilds of Wisconsin is one I will cherish. We are so grateful for one another, and thus I am grateful for gratitude itself.

*And again, in the "luckiest woman in the world" category, I offer this picture of Lucas's Mother's Day gift to me. He created a Lego grand piano (complete with a lid that could rise and lower), a bench, and his mom--seated right there, jamming away. I love that he had the creativity and skill to do this, but just as much, I love that this is how he thinks of me. To be remembered and known as being at the piano is all I could want!

In a sunshine state of mind...

2009-04-26T21:26:00.006-04:00

With great thanks to my very generous father, we were able to spend the past week in FL, soaking up some sun, hopping from theme park to theme park, and....best and cheapest thrill around....enjoying the beach. I would add in an extra beach day were I to plan the trip once again, but I suppose the two we enjoyed planted enough sand in our pockets to hold us over until summer arrives in New England!

For whatever reason, Blogger seems to want to post my pictures in reverse, so I guess I'll walk through our vacation backward! We started the trip with the beach, and we ended the trip there as well. We were frantically building our fortress against the oncoming waves....perhaps a sign that we knew already all good vacation things were about to come to an end. I loved how the kids continually congratulated Matt and me for creating the perfect sand towers--as though this was a highly marketable skill we could take on the road in the declining economy. They are such loves!

The tree of life stands tall behind us at the entrance of Disney's Animal Kingdom. The tree is a "bit too green" as Matt likes to point out, but the carvings of all the animals are quite spectacular. Disney is always a mixed bag. Even when they are carrying forward a positive message (e.g., the planet and its creatures matter immensely!), it always feels as though it's purely a market strategy. Did we have a great time? Of course. Am I always conflicted about this? Yes, yes, yes!

Siblings, one and all!

We had Matt's birthday dinner with my dad at Steak and Shake, and the kids donned their "chef" hats happily....that is until I informed Kyra that it was indeed a chef's hat. She had believed they were sailors all through the meal. Off came the hat! Oh, well! I guess it's all in the eye of the beholder.

Day one in Florida....back at the beach! The surf was particularly rough that day, and both kids could stand on the edge only with the grip of a grown up. Kyra stepped forward on her own once, was planted firmly in the ground by a wave, came up sputtering, and grabbed a hand once more! The sight of her flexing her muscles in the face of an angry surf inspired me to begin the lyrics of a song in the middle of the night that night. We'll see if the creative energy keeps flowing now that we're home!

Tomorrow it's back to work and school, and we're all in a somber mood. The joys of this CT life are many, though, and we're happy to be sleeping in our own beds tonight after a fun morning on the river enjoying world class kayak races just a few short steps from our home. We're so fortunate to feast at the banquet set at both ends of the Atlantic coast!

Spring!

2009-03-07T21:09:00.003-05:00

Today was the first truly warm day we've had in Connecticut. Coats remained in the car, layers were shed, and it felt like the rushing waters of the snow's melt would carry us forward into spring....real spring. It was a busy day, though, and while the kids had plenty of time outdoors with their friends Tobey and Ian, Matt and I were at events held primarily indoors. We had a taste of the warmth as we dashed from building to car and back again, but we didn't get to revel in it long enough to make the impending spring arrival sink in.

Interestingly, it was an after dark sign, long after the sun's warmth was packed up and put away for another night, that brought spring fever to me. We pulled into our driveway after this long and busy day--9pm!!!--and as Matt pulled up beside the mailbox, I caught a glimpse of something I haven't seen in many a month. There, appearing only as a subtle silhouette, was the first rabbit of spring.

The kids quickly unstrapped their carseats, Matt turned so the headlights shined more directly in her/his direction, and we all oohed and aahed that spring would really come. My second thought? Relief that we decided not to go all out on a garden this year. Phew!

Enjoy the first tastes of the glory that is to come....

Having a merry....

2008-12-30T22:25:00.004-05:00

Kyra is showing off her new Santa ornament--we were oblivious for some time that Grandma had tucked a beautiful silver necklace inside--how many Christmases might that have gone unnoticed???

It's only right to select a picture of Lucas that is blurred--he didn't stop moving from dawn until dusk. One of his fabulous cousins was flipping through the photos last night and said, "Lucas just doesn't take a normal picture, does he?" Indeed, he is a stand up comedian at age four--and his holiday routine was bigger than most!

Our Christmas tradition....baking Grandma Phyllis's candy cane rolls. We live for this moment each year, and celebrate how she is still part of our holiday. Kyra bakes with a bit more attitude than her grandmother did, I suspect, but it's a loving tradition for us all.

Just a few glimpses into our very happy Christmas day--celebrated in CT and NY, with relatives from CT, NY, OR and MA! What a gift!

Steam rising from the river

2008-12-06T10:04:00.002-05:00

Christmas is only two and a half weeks away, and I'm feeling as though I'm even further behind than my usual "slow to get ready for the holiday" way. The late Thanksgiving, a back-end loaded seminary class, and a few major projects and commitments at work have made this a more compressed time than usual (though in truth, I probably said just the same last year!).

To complicate matters, the Christmas plans aren't exactly nailed down as of yet. We're in the fortunate/unfortunate (glass half full or half empty?) position of having family in opposite corners of the country--Matt's sister and brother and partners/children in Oregon, and my dad in Florida--and it is simply impossible to ever be with everyone for Christmas. Florida has been the more frequent destination of late, with the sweet blessings of spending a few last holidays with my grandparents, but our kids are also now the age where they want to be home. (...or we as parents want them to be home....) Plus, Matt's sister and family have made plans to come east this year to celebrate.

We at one time presumed we would all converge on Matt's parents' home in New York (my sister included), but Matt now works nights for a major shipping firm....there aren't holiday days off when you are the newcomer in an industry that exists primarily because of holiday shopping and shipping. So, back to the drawing board. At this point we will be here in Connecticut with my sister, and Matt's sister and family will be in New York with Matt's parents....and everyone is feeling a bit sour and disappointed about it all.

We long for our kids to be with the Oregon relatives more often....truly, we do. We were gifted to live near our nieces when they were small, and we know how magical those years are, and also how quickly they pass (with those same nieces nearly launched for college). But this morning, as I walked the dog along the river, I realized that I am as disappointed in not being able to share our home and day-to-day life with them as I am about missing this one holiday together.

When they first moved west, we hopped a plane for a few years of Christmas celebrations. They were in retail then, camping out for all of late November/December at the area mall in desperate hopes of strong sales. We had the freedom from work that is more theirs now. I remember walking my nieces to school, and spending days at the mall simply to be near them--drives around the neighborhood to see their favorite Christmas lights, visits with my brother-in-law's family (the draw that moved them from NY back to OR), and even trips to the summer camp directed by my sister-in-law. Those locations weren't the places that frame our lives, but they were meaningful because they were theirs.

Now we share this feeling--this sense that knowing us and knowing our lives is somehow richer if you've stepped foot in it. We want to bring them along on walks by the river, sharing the beauty of the steam rising as the frosty air sneaks up the backs of our jackets. We want to have drinks at the bar down the road. Buy our favorite pizza. Drive them around to say, "Look....look at this place we have come to live in and now love. This is our life, right here, right now." And we're simply not sure if or how this will happen.

For those who can't experience it--who perhaps won't ever take those walks with us by the river, I want to wrap up the gift of our contentment. I want those who love us to know our deep pleasure in this place and this time. As I type, the Christmas lights shine from the tree, the dog rests quietly on the couch after our long morning walk, and the kids are busily creating their own Christmas presents with rocks and markers and magazines and glue....state secrets spilled out over the dining room table from which I have been forbidden to visit. Matt lies sleeping upstairs after another night at work, and we all celebrate that the weekend is here. Happiness....contentment....peace....steam rising from the river. These are all the gifts I would have you all to know.

Thanks. Giving.

2008-11-27T10:40:00.003-05:00

Does giving thanks resemble quieting one's kids with harsh threats about taking away the Macy's parade or all future television? Matt works nights now, and we're living a staggered family existence. As I head to bed, he is heading to work, and soon after he rolls into bed, I roll out of it to attempt to keep our two boisterous children and barky dog silent so he can sleep. It's not easy on any of us. Today it was a sufficiently difficult task that I insisted both kids walk the dog with me. They ran circles around the muddy baseball field at the park below our house, but not long or hard enough to tire any of them into silent submission. More threats, more turning off of the TV, more separation of children. You get the picture! But Matt is now up, the kids are set free from the chains of hushing, and all of Thanksgiving day stretches out before us, dinner with friends not scheduled until 5pm tonight.

Thanksgiving has become a sort of secondary holiday for us, despite that many families are more likely to travel now than in December for Christmas, Hanukkah or Kwanzaa. (Come to think of it, we don't travel much for Christmas either!) Years ago, the first or second Thanksgiving of our married life I believe, Matt and I returned to New York to his parents' rural country home. It's restful to be there, and after indulging in hikes on their property, long afternoons of reading by a sun-filled window (This was pre-kids; we were still able to read!), and over-consumption of every sort, we delayed our departure to the last possible moment. We headed for home on Sunday afternoon, expecting a few traffic bumps but nothing of significance. To our great surprise and dismay, our trip took twice as long as usual, and we were crawling out of our skin by the time we returned to Massachusetts. We called to declare we would never return for Thanksgiving and put ourselves through that again, and I believe we've only gone back on this "heat of the moment" promise once.....for Matt's parents' 50th anniversary celebration, and on that trip, we left on Saturday and drove through the night rather than make the same mistake twice. Typically we've declared ourselves the Thanksgiving hosts, nestling into our Massachusetts and Connecticut homes for a day of rich smells and tastes, and too many dishes to speak of. (Early menus were color-coded and included tasks for the week ahead of the holiday--I was a bit of a control freak, no?) I don't know the last time I spent Thanksgiving with my father, though I suspect it was at least a decade ago, and the day often feels like more of a much-deserved day off from work than a family holiday.

Whether the traditional crowd around the table, or something more informal like our own celebration, it is always a gift to give and to say thanks. While we're quite good at the giving thanks aspect, I'd like for us to increase the giving part of the day. This is something we'll be more able to do in a couple of years when the kids are more independent and participative. So in the meantime, we give money and food, and the gift of our prayers for all those alone, longing, and in need. There is so, so much need, and I'm reminded even as I type that many in the world live in settings of war, violence and threat--threats far more serious than my suggestion that my kids will have to miss the rest of the parade.

Peace, Lord, we long for peace. May it begin here in this home, at this moment, with gratitude, thanks, and giving.

Gimme an O....

2008-11-04T20:18:00.002-05:00

BAMA!

We're anxiously, eagerly watching the election results roll in, excited by the news to this hour, but always holding our breath after that infamous all-night (and weeks long) wait in 2000. When the original states were called, with Kentucky's eight electoral votes for McCain and Vermont's three electoral votes for Obama, Kyra was immediately despondent--"Awwwww, he's losing?" she cried out. It was a nice opportunity to say, "No matter how things turn out, we'll thank God that we were able to have our say, and we'll be grateful that courageous people are willing to lead the country." It's certainly not a job I would want....

We were planning to spend the evening with friends, pouring the champagne as this historic decision rolls in. The kids were beyond too tired, though, and I had to set aside my selfish want to celebrate with friends and "be the parent," as we say many times a day. Now Matt and I are snuggling up on the couch here at home, I'm avoiding the seminary reading I desperately need to do, and I'm thinking about what it would be like if my grandparents were alive to watch all this underway. If I knew my grandmother as I think I did, I can imagine she would have a harsh word or two for Sarah Palin--I don't think she would have been a fan after that first speech (it seemed to go so quickly downhill from there....). As for my grandfather, he was one for history being made--and it looks like it will be made in grand fashion tonight. I'm sure he and my dad would have been on the phone every five minutes, clocking the results with the speed of the finest CNN pollster. They would have loved every minute of it.

So, in their memory, we'll love every minute of it, too--and pray that somehow Obama's spirit of uniting the country will prevail in practice as it prevailed in his prose.

Lovable "Lu"

2008-09-26T21:12:00.003-04:00

Aren't we lucky to live with this little guy and soak up his love, day in, day out? Here we are celebrating him on his first day of school, just a few weeks ago!

Animals on the loose

2008-09-07T21:08:00.005-04:00

I've made brief, passing mention of our town's black bears. While last year's single appearance of one bear in our backyard seemed a fluke--just a wrong turn as she made her way to her usual stops at richer, smellier garbage cans--it seems the bears are here to stay. This year I had the privilege of greeting a bear on our front yard one evening, and this past week, one decided to pass through the neighborhood just as all the school buses were returning. No wonder they are practicing "bear habits" at school side by side with fire drills, emergency evacuations, and so on.

Today we had quite a different set of animals on the loose! These might look familiar! Thanks to our fabulous church for this afternoon of great fun.

Did someone call for a dalmatian? Perhaps this one strayed from the firehouse up the street.

Friendliest tiger I've ever seen!

Hey--where'd this one come from? That's a real wild animal--or at least Ty barking his noisy head off!

All fun must end, as we know. Here's a teary Lucas at bedtime, facing (quite literally) that the tiger could not go to bed with him. Over and over he cried, "But I'm never going to remember him. I'm going to forget him!" And come to think of it, I probably sound just like him as I achingly face the end of my fabulous weekends at home! May we all carry the memories with us into this new week--and may these friendly, familiar animals frequent our homes more often than the truly wild visitors!

Summer's end

2008-09-01T16:39:00.005-04:00

Perhaps the biggest story of the summer is the arrival of Ty, our lab-something or other mix dog. He is my walking pal each morning, sparring partner (and love object) of the kids all afternoon, and Matt's competition on the bike path each evening. We can't get enough of this dog, barky personality and all!

This year's garden was nearly a total bust--too little sun, too much rain, blight covering most everything. It has been a sore disappointment. But in a "hope in the midst of despair" sort of way, this one honeydew melow is plugging along, even after we've given up on most everything. I'm praying that it ripens into something marvelously sweet and juicy!

Okay, I couldn't resist another picture of gorgeous Ty. Now you can see why we love him so!

When I began this blog, I was continuously composing in my mind--envisioning each day's simple exchanges as a post of great wisdom and insight. Of late, the blog is a distant memory....more of a "gosh, I should let people know what we're up to" sort of tug from time to time. This is, in part, due to work and classes; but it's also because I'm trying to be more in the moment than scheming how to shape the moment into a blog post!

Summer is concluding today--at least the no-school, days at the pool sort of summer--and I wanted to at least capture a few words and images of this banquet of life. And yes, I want to update my long-neglected record of what I've been reading!

First, the books.... Grace (Eventually) by Anne Lamott, Kyra by Carol Gilligan, Morning Sun on a White Piano: Simple Pleasures and the Sacramental Life by Robin Meyers, The Faith Club (I'm mere pages from the end!).... There are more; I know there are. But perhaps I'll just have to call it water under the bridge and move on to memories of summer.

What I will always remember.... Kyra discovering suddenly that she can swim underwater without plugging her nose, and just days later, jumping into the 12 foot diving pool for the first time! I'll remember Ty tugging me toward the front/side yard after an evening walk on the bike path; when I looked up, there was one of our friendly, wandering black bears! Eek--what a sight! I'll remember how long Lucas looked each day--how he has grown into his own body and skin and become fully a boy, no longer a baby. I'll remember an afternoon of canoeing with Matt, our lunch in Litchfield, and many an evening watching Weeds or the latest Netflix delivery. Most of all, I'll treasure the memories of dinner out on our screened-in porch--hour after hour of family togetherness listening to the rustle of wind in the trees, the whine of Ty through the door, and the happy sounds of a neighborhood come to life each evening!

A toast to the bliss of summer!

Home alone

2008-07-11T16:48:00.002-04:00

The kids are at "Auntie Camp" this week, and Heather has truly planned a special outing for each and every day. We've been talking about this week for a year, after the kids spent a long weekend there last summer and Matt and I got another taste of what it feels like to be on our own. The leap from a long weekend to a week seemed a bit much--particularly when we had the escape hatch of home open, given that Matt and I decided not to travel but to simply have the "staycation" that Governor Rell has been suggesting. But a trip to the library, a water park, the movies, the zoo, and the Duck Boat tour seems to have taken off any homesick edge little Lucas might have been feeling. (His big sister is happy enough with Auntie that I suspect she would gladly move in, if not for her bike, scooter and dog being here in CT.)

I had a new assistant starting at work this week, so my original intention to be off for the whole week didn't pan out. I did take off Thursday and Friday (today), though, and it's been pure bliss. Yesterday we drove to western CT and enjoyed the hill country--the drive was spectacular, we treated ourselves to a decadent anniversary lunch at an outdoor cafe, and the weather could not have been more perfect. Even a couple of hours of lawn mowing and garden weeding didn't dampen our enthusiasm! Today has had additional pleasures in store. We took the canoe out on the river for the first time this summer--and we took Ty for what we believe was his very first canoe trip. Matt clearly had the more difficult role--steering from behind, constant urging of the dog to sit, and a solo paddle of 10 minutes upstream at one point as I talked with the kids on the cell phone. Ah, technology.... But it was four of the finest hours I can remember. We stopped at a sandy beach along our route and gave Ty yet another swimming lesson. (He doesn't yet trust his instincts; we're working on him!) The cool of the river water gently drifting downstream was just what the warm day needed, and creation was in its glory in the presence of a blue heron, a hawk, and turtles galore appearing at multiple points along our journey.

Other pleasures from the summer banquet thus far? Kyra and I went to Camp Wightman for the first time. I intended to blog as soon as we returned, to share the absolute joy I felt in seeing my child come alive to camping as I did when I was young--but alas, I think that blog remained in my mind. I'm trying to decide if we'll go back this summer. From the lake to the root-laden trails to the boisterous voices in the camp dining hall, the experience was the perfect blend of newness and nostalgia. The summer has included a couple of trips to the pool we joined--showing off the kids' increasing swimming confidence, and of course countless walks with the dog, morning and night, every single day.

At moments I feel it all slipping away too, too quickly, but then I open my palm, stop trying to clutch and hold it all still, and enjoy how summer and time, like the river, wash right on over me.

Birthdays Abound!

2008-06-26T22:12:00.003-04:00

My dear boy turned four this week....but no post, as we decided to add some excitement to his special day (a day dominated by strep throat and a canceled birthday party!). We welcomed home Ty, our new dog. While Lucas turned four, five year old Ty stepped in at the bottom of the pack, but the top of our hearts! We have very few pictures of Ty--too much time working on commands and ensuring our well-disciplined dog remains as such! But here are a few shots of the amazing birthday boy. His love sustains us, brightens our lives, and reminds us that each of carries the seed of God within. Enjoy these, as we have the privilege of enjoying him!

55 miles per hour

2008-06-05T22:05:00.004-04:00

This morning I traveled for a meeting in a city south of us and, having left with more than enough time, I settled in for a gas-conserving, 55 miles per hour drive. I had to set the cruise--if not for this automatic control, I would have continually given in to the pressure of the crowd piling up behind me. Surprisingly, I didn't hear a single horn blare in my direction and I was oblivious to any rude gestures that might have come my way. It was a practice of restraint, of course, but it was an occasion for great learning, too. I discovered along the way that...

...driving slowly lacks the exhiliration of the 80 miles per hour, weaving in and out of traffic traveling I've been known for on occasion, but the sense of safety beats the exhiliration any day!

...I never have to slam on the brakes when approaching a police officer if already driving 10 miles per hour under the speed limit.

...I sometimes worry too much about others' opinions and actions, but if I stay in my lane, keep my eyes in front of me, and worry only about my own driving, I'm a far more focused and happy driver--and person!

...when we do things that are counter-cultural, we give permission to others to do the same. There were a number of occasions when cars would get behind me and follow suit for 5, 10, 15 miles. It was as though the drivers were simply waiting for someone else to claim a controlled pace with them.

...conserving energy (in this case, gas) requires being planful. You must leave on time. You can't answer "just one more email" or "just one more call." You have to leave when you say you will--be true to your word--and honor yourself and whomever you are going to meet. It's actually a very respectful way to live.

I could go on and on. Sometimes living "on the cheap" is the path to enlightenment!

Snapshots of life...

2008-05-23T20:44:00.002-04:00

No, not real photographs! Word snapshots, you might say.

*Fragile--we all are, aren't we? We had a strange weekend, with Kyra suddenly fainting in the bathroom this past Sunday morning. Though all turned out well in the end, we did call 911, take a visit from the friendly paramedics and police officers of our fine town (our tax dollars at work!), and have those fleeting moments where we thought, "What on earth is happening to our baby?" It was terrifying and quickly over and a reminder that we are all very, very fragile. We are holding the kids closer, loving them with words and gestures and prayers, and trying to be the parents we so want to be. News of the death of Steven Curtis Chapman's daughter only reinforced this need to slow down, to notice one another, and to be in the moment with each other. My gosh--these little ones are so incredibly precious.

*"What will the neighbors think?" I drove home today to catch a brief earful of a neighbor arguing with her teenage son. Matt was vacuuming when I came in, and I suggested he continue doing so lest we teach the kids some new vocabulary words! Later I was talking with another neighbor and she said, in essence, "Reminds me that we're all human!" We were joking about how living in a close-knit neighborhood can keep one's shouting impulses in check from time to time, and how we're probably better parents because of that, "What will the neighbors think?" pause. As I replayed the conversation later, though, I thought how disturbing and sad it is that we tend to care more about those external impressions than we do about the very children we are loving and raising. "What will my children think and feel?" I'd rather ask.

*Books, class, and the life of the mind--I was scheduled to take a week-long intensive course at seminary in June. When I saw the pre-reading list, I immediately began to question my plans--how could I ever devote that amount of evening/weekend time when I am coming up on a major board meeting, trying to enjoy the kids, anticipating summer, etc.? I lost a bit of sleep, tossed and turned, thought about it, and finally decided to drop the course. (Having one free course a term is incentive to stick with it as often as I can!) I emailed the registrar late one evening, and the next morning she wrote back to say, "Oh good--we decided yesterday evening that we need to cancel the course due to low enrollment." What a happy chance that we all came to the same conclusion. Now I'm looking forward to a week of vacation, and all the joyous evenings leading up to it.

I've been behind in summarizing, reviewing the books I'm reading....far behind, in fact! I'm going to write a quick list, as I brought home a pile of five more this afternoon. Let's see if I can remember what I've been reading! Did I write about Three Cups of Tea? Brilliant book--an example of the power of being available to life rather than seeking out one's purpose. Sometimes purpose finds us, as certainly was the case in the life of this mountain climber turned international education/peace activist. Then there was Leading from the Soul. While the allegory style of the book wasn't my favorite, and some of it felt over-wrought, I could certainly relate to the sense of crisis for the protagonist--some days you wake up and realize that much of what you are doing doesn't express the deepest impulses of who you are. Climbing back to that sense of self is a powerful journey. (And I've now picked up Parker Palmer's Let Your Life Speak once again to remind me of the journey....) Lastly I read Sex and the Soul, a qualitative study of college students and their integration (or not) of sexuality and spirituality. Having attended a college that would classify itself as evangelical, I found her reflections on this setting to be very true to my experience, and I found myself proud to have made the choice to attend such a school. Am I more liberal than my college? Absolutely. Are there things I would change, and ways that a sometimes pious place undermines its own values? Yes. But I still have a great deal of fondness for my experience. Working now on a very secular college campus, I have to believe that her remarks about this setting through the words and anecdotes of students are similarly apt. Very powerful stuff....

And now I'm on to a new set!

Breathe in, enjoy the moment, celebrate what we have....

The view from our vacation

2008-04-26T15:31:00.002-04:00

The temperature has dropped a good 20 degrees between yesterday and today, but we're still soaking up the sun and living as though we might never again see such a beautiful day. Matt is laying a "rock garden," intended to be a solid foundation for the kids' in-ground sandbox, but truly such a work of art, we're all going to be disappointed when it's covered! I'm on the side porch, appreciating each time the wind blows that the screens haven't yet replaced the glass. Brrr....springtime chill! Our favorite singer-songwriter, Lori McKenna, is pouring her velvety voice out over the scene, and I'm wishing this moment could go on and on and on. (And Lori, favorite singer-songwriter, is coming to OUR TOWN this summer! Truly, OUR TOWN! Have I mentioned how much I love where we live????)

What are the other treasured moments from our vacation?

*Matt and I went to see "The Visitor" while Auntie indulged the kids in some time alone with her at her apartment. Now that they've had regular visits without us, we're seen as spoiling their party to actually come with them and stay! It was a reminder of life both past and future to walk the streets of Boston as we waited for the movie to begin, and conversation with one another that doesn't revolve around work, laundry, or the latest parenting challenge is always a gift. Thank you, Auntie!

*The kids and I were able to partake in our annual tradition, cheering on runners of the Boston Marathon. I've written before about how this event moves me--the pure love of parent and child in the Hoyt father-son pair; the colorful display of our varied skins, flags, and shirts bearing every allegiance under the sun. So many people put their feet to the pavement to raise funds for non-profits, to pay tribute to someone they love, or to memorialize someone they've lost. This year I saw a runner who had pinned a small sign to his back reading, "This one is for you, Mom. We'll miss you. 4/18/2008." His mother had died only three days before, and he was running. I may never run a marathon (though never say never!), but I can relate to the experience of putting the whole of my physical self into an act of personal triumph and tribute to another. Watching the marathon always takes me back to these moments.

*We celebrated Matt's birthday with an excursion to the Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield, MA. Though the three and six year olds were less interested in inductees and the factoids one can learn along the way, they were enthralled with some of the interactive displays and activities, and we all enjoyed ourselves. A thrill? When "Daddy" sunk the very first foul shot in a competition!

*It was a week of picnics! We've been eating meals on the porch (where the chill continues!), ventured out for a barbecue at our pastor's house, and also indulged in a gourmet picnic-bench meal with new friends at a favorite local playground. We met these friends for the first time at the playground, and our four kids took immediately to one another, traipsing from end to end without a backward glance. The youngest in the crowd was 2 1/2 years old, and with a whole extra year under his belt, Lucas was the designated watcher and helper to young Ian. At one point Ian ventured out a gate that would typically have been closed, moving without hesitation into the parking lot. Lucas stayed at the gate, called urgently to the parents, and demonstrated that he has the ability to save the life of a friend. I've never been more proud of him.

*Swimming last night at the "parenting through swimming" program we attend brought break-throughs for both kids. Lucas swam from side to side on his own, bravely letting go of the "parent crutch" we've both been nurturing for too long! And Kyra, at the urging of "Mr. Bob" took off her swim float for the first time, holding herself only with milk jugs in her hands. She's getting ready to take off!

Other pleasures abound--visits with neighbors, breakfast this morning at a favorite local cafe, a tour of the recently renovated library (indeed, our community has an embarrassment of riches!), appearances by new flowers and birds, and the purchase of seeds for the garden. It's been a wonderful week. Thank you God for vacation!

Away

2008-04-08T19:56:00.002-04:00

Matt and the kids are in NY for a couple of days; Matt needs to accompany his dad on some medical appointments, and the kids will have a much-wanted Grandma visit. It's always eerily silent when they are away--and the time becomes a rare opportunity to hear what our neighborhood actually sounds like. I hear my teenage neighbor obsessively bouncing his lacrosse ball off the trampoline-like net that springs it back toward him every few seconds. The occasional plane take-off or approach to landing is suddenly audible. And the noises within the house are more prominent, too. The grandfather clock is tick, tock, ticking away. The laptop in the corner of the living room chirps from time to time, questioning why it's been forgotten and allowed to rest so long today!

When I returned home from work tonight (not too, too late, though it is easy to work late when the house is empty--and the next two nights will be work events!), I could still smell the lingering soap/steam scent from Matt's shower, and the kids' sleep smell seemed to hang in their room. I'll snuggle their blankets to me tonight, a nice reminder of them sleeping soundly a state away.

I miss them, all of them. And the gift of this time is how their absence shines a light on how I sometimes miss them when they're all right here. Don't get my wrong...the silence is a gift. But what I learn from it is part of that gift as well. They are such treasures.

Perfection

2008-03-28T21:31:00.003-04:00

Love the freckles!

Oh, those eyes!

Skiing, if you must ask....how clever are these two? Perfect love!

Continuing to read....

2008-03-22T11:03:00.004-04:00

We're springing forth with a new look....time to bring on the green of the season! Enjoy!

You would think that I had stopped reading altogether, by my silence on recently finished books. This is not the case, though, and merely reflects that I'm not taking the time to blog about it! Given that Matt is embroiled in some conflict between the kids (one that started with the two of them fighting each other, and resulted in Kyra shouting, "HELP ME, LUCAS!" as Matt took something away from her--the switch between siblings from arch enemies to staunch loyalists never ceases to amaze me...), I'm going to catch up my list!

Christianity for the Rest of Us: How the Neighborhood Church is Transforming the Faith, Diana Butler Bass

I was privileged to attend a leadership workshop at Andover Newton with Diana Butler Bass and a roomful of engaging pastors and lay leaders back in February. At the time, I had only read about a third of the book on which the workshop was based, so it's as though my eventual reading came with a highly detailed introduction/orientation from the author herself. Having written a spiritual memoir that revealed a number of vital, solid, and even growing mainline congregations in her personal past, Diana set out to refute the media-driven message about the death of mainline religion by studying and profiling congregations that indicated new life, rather than death. The book provided me with a lens--a series of Christian practices (e.g., hospitality, theological reflection)--whereby I consider my own church experience now. I found myself extremely hopeful about our capacity to change, grow and be part of the emerging world after both the book and the workshop.

The Bluest Eye, Toni Morrison

The last time I read The Bluest Eye, I was in college, I suspect. I'm sure I appreciated the book then, but now, as someone with children, with much more rich encounters with people of color, and with a more sophisticated eye toward writing, I loved indulging in Toni Morrison once again. The occasion was a visit to Lydia Diamond's adaptation of the play for the stage. With a group of 25 from the university attending together, I invited a faculty member who writes frequently on the novel to facilitate a conversation with us ahead of time. She brought us below the layers of Pecola, Claudia, Frieda, and the rest, to the intentionality of Morrison's choices--the deliberateness of her every word. I was reminded why I will never be a novelist. The good news? I don't need to be. I'm gifted enough by Morrison and others!

Take This Bread: A Radical Conversion, Sara Miles

Sara Miles was an unlikely Christian, having grown up with atheist parents, and living in leftist communities that eschewed Christianity as being a property and product of the conservative religious right. But one day she wandered into an alternative Episcopalian community, received communion at their open-to-all table, and realized she had just eaten Jesus. Sara beautifully describes her passage both before and after her astonishing conversion, and challenges anyone who calls him or herself "Christian" to follow the example of Christ in as credible and authentic a manner. I'm still pages from the end, savoring every bite of this yeast-laden book. It's a meal I don't want to end.

I read for class, I touch every page of "The Christian Century," and still I long for more time! What a wonderful life!

Lottery ticket, anyone?

2008-03-17T22:27:00.006-04:00

For years, I insisted to Matt that I believe lottery winnings would only ruin us. While the majority of me still believes this, on days when I'm home, I wonder.... We are such different people--such different parents--and our kids are so well-served by these differences. I wish there was a way that both of us could have more time with them, and they with us. After Matt sacrificed that time for years with a more demanding (and higher paying!) job, it is now my turn to give in to the demands in the interest of the family-supporting paycheck. I'm good at my work, and I receive a great deal of affirmation for what I do. It can be easy for me to believe the lines I put out there for the world: "The kids are better off being home with Matt. He's the fun parent. I'm the 'let's clean the toilets for fun' kind of parent who worries more about folding laundry than getting out there in the yard." While there's truth in this, on days like today, when I am home with the kids, I realize I am as good at home as I am at work.

Matt's away with his parents for a few days, and I'm working from home in order to care for the kids and not blow all my vacation days. By noon, I had already managed to walk Kyra to school, accomplish some of that must-be-done work, arrange an afterschool visit from a friend of Kyra's (promising to bring home a neighbor's child, too!), dig into the homemade zucchini bread we made yesterday with lovable Lucas (frozen zucchini from last year's garden--can't wait for the growing season to begin!), dust and spot clean the house, finish the laundry, and go through all of Lucas's clothes, weeding out three bags for Freecycle. Had I managed to play with Lucas? Does it count if he played near me? You get the picture!

The same drive I bring to work appears when I am home, and long-lingering projects are accomplished in minutes. While there's different satisfaction in my work, there's something satisfying about creating a happy home for the kids, too. Though I am likely the parent who needs to set a timer to remember to get down on the floor and play for 20 minutes a day, there is a benefit to attending to the environment in which they play with such gusto and satisfaction.

Later in the day, as I meandered down the woodsy path from school with Kyra's friend's mom and the six kids we had between us, I realized there are other gifts I give to my children--I link them to the world. I bring friends into their lives. I'm fortunate--in every time period of my life, every home I've lived in, I've had a circle of close friends. Meeting people and engaging them is something I do with relative ease (hence some of the praise at work). Matt would be the first to admit that this is not his gift. Add to that the awkwardness of being the one dad in a sea of moms, and it's not surprising that the kids are mainly home with him rather than surrounded by friends and playmates. (My hat is off to him for one day taking Lucas to meet not one, but two moms and their kids at a nearby indoor playspace!) In recognizing my strengths, I remembered what fun it can be to be here. We played basketball outside in the yard. We dreamed with Kyra's friend about all the future times we'll play together. And even as I'm having that fun and dreaming aloud with her mom, I realize that it is not my season to be home. The fun we will share will not likely be on my watch. This week is an exception.

And now we've arrived back to that lottery ticket. I don't mind working. In fact, I think parents who work outside the home bring unique outlooks to parenting. Having a wider circle of meaning alleviates pressure for the kids. They are not my sole accomplishments--and perhaps not "accomplishments" at all, and because of this, I can revel in their individuality. I can enjoy them without needing them to somehow be something that states my meaning to the world. That is established in other times and other places. But a little bit less work would be good. More balance would bring joy, I suspect. And those choices are always linked to money--having enough, knowing how to get enough, and somehow surviving on enough.

At one point Lucas locked himself in our bedroom, and the door handle, perpetually threatening to break, finally did just break. There was no unlocking that door. As I soothed myself (more than him) with calming words, shuffling around for a screwdriver with which to remove the handle, I was reminded of the work it can be to be home. And perhaps if I have too many more "locked in the bedroom" moments with both kids home for three early release days, I might go running back to the office by the end of the week. At this moment, though, I'm wishing for just a little more time.... They are so precious to me.

March 6

2008-03-06T09:44:00.002-05:00

Until my father reminded me earlier this week, this date wasn't much on my mind. Some years it is fresh and vivid--this awful day when we learned my mother was dying--and other years, it is a kind of background noise or energy that doesn't break through to the surface. It was fifteen years ago that she died, April 6th, 1993, and in those early years, March 6th ushered in a host of memories: leaving my college roommate and close friend behind for what I presumed to be a weekend trip to Boston, moving the tag on my RA door card from "in" to "away for the day," and the long, uncertain drive to Boston with dear family friends. Some years the images would cascade in vivid succession as I tried to put one foot in front of the other, certain that this anniversary day was the worst day in my life.

This year, it feels different. The sun is shining, I was able to walk my smiling daughter to school, and though the news is full of the devastating reality that March 6th is becoming "the worst day in life" for many, many people around the world, it no longer seems to be mine....at least not this year. It has become a day for noticing--the frozen tracks of footprints in the mud on the wooded path to school, the fall leaves left unraked, visible once again in their clumps of matted brown. There are buds on the trees, too, and though snow is certainly going to fall once again, spring is clearly in the air. Blessings abound--I'm even trying to feel fortune in coming to work! Miracles appear at every turn, and even as I remember this day when earthly, bodily healing was denied my mother, I know I can look at the healing beyond, within, and all-around. There were miracles, even then, and I'm grateful to see them now.

Hoops

2008-02-28T14:33:00.003-05:00

Kyra's playing basketball this winter, a great accomplishment for our six year old! She's played two nights thus far, and the change between night one and night two was astonishing. Anxiety was running high on night one--for the parents, at least! They had cancelled the K-1 girls' league, offering us the opportunity to play in a K-1 co-ed program. Snows were falling heavily that first night, and over half her team didn't show--she was the only girl. Feminist mama that I am, I was crestfallen. If the evening destroyed her hopes and interest, I was going to be furious! She soldiered on, though, demonstrating that being a great listener and learner is key for any organized sport at this age.

Shot after shot went "swoosh" through the net as they spent the first half hour on fundamentals. She put every suggestion into play, shifting from simply thrusting the ball toward the basket to a clear dominant hand shot, using her left hand as a guide. She paused, she concentrated, she listened, she focused, and she was rewarded. The ball was hitting her mark! But the half hour ended, and it was time to "scrimmage" with the other team--a not-so-descriptive word for the minor chaos that is young kids' basketball.

Given that there were no substitutes, Kyra was up and playing for the entire "game." The rules are simple and good: no stealing the ball, pass three times before taking a shot, give the other team time to clear down to the other end of the court, and so on. The coaches are zooming up and down with them, calling out suggestions, pausing the play to encourage them to spread out, share the ball, take the shot, etc. (I LOVE these coaches--they are accomplishing the impossible, in my mind.) Never before have I realized how much there is to remember: note where the ball is at all times, follow your "buddy" to get your guard arms in the air, dribble if the ball is in your hands, keep moving in the direction of your basket, on and on and on. She was exhausted, she was sweating, and she had run her little heart out, nervously picking at or biting her nails for much of the game. While she said she had had fun, she was clearly beat.

School vacation gave a week's reprieve, and this Tuesday we returned, this time through sleet and rain, to another night's basketball. More of her team had arrived--and she felt the designated expert because of the first night's experience. She was still excelling on the fundamentals, but now, when "game time" came around, her hands were high in the air--ALL THE TIME. It was lovely, and priceless. She would have run down the court with her hands in the air were it natural or comfortable. She was ready!

Given that more of the team was in attendance, they were able to use subs. She got a rest or two. She was included by her teammates in plans to set up plays. (Yes, even at 5 and 6 there are superstar players, already trying to set the pick and make their move!) And at the end, as she guzzled water at the drinking fountain, she looked up at me and said, "I LOVE IT IN THERE!"

We do, too, dear child! We do, too.

Snippets

2008-01-28T09:15:00.000-05:00

On any given day, I imagine the many posts I could write....living my life through the blogger's lens, I suppose. But given that I have work, and class, and writing, writing, writing in both, my posts rarely make it from my mind to my "pen" (err, laptop). Today will be no exception, but I wanted to share an image or two.

*My reading continues, though much more slowly with our return to real life. I grabbed "The Pot Luck Club" off the shelf at our church library, looking for something a little more entertaining and a little less thought-provoking than other books on my "must read" list. It was what I expected--a bit cheesy, a bit Christian novelish (not my usual genre, but there can be something comforting about fictional characters who pray!), and thoroughly engrossing by the time I came to the close. Whether or not I'll seek out the sequel remains to be seen, but I was amused, and there's an increasingly larger space in my life for amusement.

*I had a striking, wonderful dream a week or so ago. Of course the details have all faded between then and now, but the essence remains--Matt and I were given that chance I sometimes long for....to return to our earlier selves with all we know now and see if our decision to be together still holds. In this particular dream, it did--and vividly. We knew all that we know now. We stood holding in our hands all the questions, all the longings, all the wishes for both the life we have together and the unknown lives beyond, and we still chose one another. Sometimes dreams can be a beautiful gift to our wide awake selves. This one certainly was.

*Since our return from Florida, my skin is dry and itchy, itchy, itchy. Though I tried to quickly react with lotions, bath oils, more water, and so on, it was too little, too late. There is just no getting rid of this persistent, nagging itch from my head to my toes. It's in my way--not only am I distracted, but I want to be outside, I want to feel the fresh air, and I know a few walks out in the cold is part of my problem, so I primarily stay inside. Yet again I'm vowing to be more watchful next year--to not save lotion for when my skin feels dry, but instead to simply make it part of my routine. Does this sound like my prayer life? But of course! I wait for the "need," and then I wonder why God seems silent. Perhaps if prayer was part of my routine.... Well, you can fill in the rest.

So much to say, but a little boy is seeking a story or two, and given that I stayed out sick after a sleepless night (both kids were up and wandering about--argh!), I can finally respond and attend to him. Happy day....I know I plan to have one!

Reading my way into the new year....

2008-01-12T10:47:00.000-05:00

There is so much I could and should write about our time in FL: the spectacular celebration of my grandfather's life, complete with all the aunts, uncles, cousins, and counsins' children sharing stories, faith and music in his honor; a visit with my father near his favorite FL beach as the kids leapt, skipped and marched their way back and forth between the ocean and the handmade sand castle they optimistically created within reach of the incoming tide; my grandmother's surprise trip to the Emergency Room that resulted in a pacemaker and a new lease on life (She plans to start her own blog at 90 years old--how's that for embracing life and moving forward?). And should I write about the sunshine? But of course! There is something renewing and refreshing about a warm weather vacation in the midst of New England winters. It is a reminder that spring will come, shorts and short sleeves are around the corner, and we will once again swim and play outdoors. Truly, it is coming.

BUT, I'm not going to write about all of that (or have I already???). I want to begin writing about the books I'm reading....not reviews, not critiques; in fact, I plan to create little more than a list. What the list represents is important, though. I am notorious for saying, "I wish I had more time to read." I imagine myself with a life pre-work, pre-kids, pre-commitment in which I lounge by the pool all day with a book in hand, as though this was a life I once knew or one I'll ever have. Contained in the comment is a little bit of resentment about my life's commitments (which include demanding work, kids, classes, church, Sunday School teaching and board service, etc.), and a whole lot of inaccuracy about the reading I do or don't do. In fact, I read quite a bit. True, some of this is for courses I take. But I'm also known to squeeze in a pleasure book while writing that last paper, or grab a weekend to be reading near the kids as they are creating yet another city with their lego, block, and Little People friends. In fact, I am someone who does have time to read. And this year I'm determined to prove it!

Here's what has been part of this new year so far:

Into the Wild, Jon Krakauer: While Krakauer's book is the story of one individual's quest to escape civilization and challenge his skills and strength against and with nature, my reading put me in touch with a broader essence of masculinity. In telling the story of Chris McCandless, Krakauer describes his own youthful ventures to take on the odds, and I could see elements of Matt and many of the men I know. That the story of Chris McCandless ends in death does not diminish the universality of the quest to understand his own significance (or insignificance) in the midst of a natural environment that still contains many mysteries.

Passing for Thin: Losing Half My Weight and Finding Myself, Frances Kuffel: This is a book that grabbed me from the library shelves as I was wandering on one of those "time to write the paper--but let's see what I can have as a reward when I'm done" afternoons. For anyone who has lost weight, only to discover that the inside of herself has not necessarily caught up with the outside (or vice versa), this book will speak. To learn since from Frances Kuffel's blog that she continues to struggle with weight, size, food and self is to find empathy. There is a lifetime of learning that goes into reshaping one's sense of self, and her journey is a reminder that there is no single destination, but many points of temporary arrival.

Mama's Boy, Preacher's Son: A Memoir of Growing Up, Coming Out, and Changing America's Schools, Kevin Jennings: It doesn't take long to discover my favorite genre is memoir. I would read one a day if I could. (See, there I go again bemoaning the absence of time--perhaps I should strive for one a week!) Jennings' story is one of overcoming great odds (poverty, participation in racism, heterosexism and homophobia) to become a renowned, if unlikely, activist. I was moved to tears by the horrors he experienced (vowing yet again to protect my children with outrageous means, if necessary), by his willingness to participate personally and publicly in change, and by the story of his mother's unique and parallel transformation. When my teacher sister shared yet another story of children taunting another child on the playground with "You're gay!" without the slightest clue what it meant, I had this title in hand--what a gift.

Here If You Need Me: A True Story, Kate Braestrup: Yet again, a memoir! This is the story of a mother of four who tragically receives the news that her much loved spouse has been killed in a car accident while on duty as a state police officer. Her grief takes her through personally washing and dressing his body, being present to hers and her children's emotions, and weaving a new life that includes the pursuit of what had been her husband's call--to be ordained as a Unitarian Universalist pastor. The call becomes intimately her own, and the book is filled with the stories, images and insights that have come from her years as chaplain to the state game wardens of Maine. It is a lovely book, even tinged with the many inevitable tragedies that shape her life and her work. I savored each word. A few years ago Matt discovered (via NPR, I believe) the author Mike Perry, and quickly felt a kinship through Population 485: Meeting Your Neighbors One Siren at a Time. I loved this book as well, and appreciated that Here If You Need Me took me on a similar journey, but with explicitly stated spiritual questions and discoveries.

So what are you reading this year, and how can we celebrate the time we do have to read? Enjoy!

An Ole'-Fashioned Country Christmas

2007-12-22T13:15:00.000-05:00

This is the year of three Christmas celebrations for our family--celebration one in central NY at Matt's parents' home, celebration two at home (suburban CT) for Christmas Eve and morning, and celebration three at my sister's place in Boston. From country to city in four days flat. Here are some images of Christmas, country-style.

What is Christmas without an angel?

Fresh from a wild ride on the 4-wheeler, Kyra the dare-devil!

Self-portrait of my own Christmas cheer.

Spring melt, or just a moment of winter thaw?

Have a very, very merry Christmas!

Do you know what day today is?

2007-12-01T09:23:00.000-05:00

Kyra, don't you realize this isn't just any day?

Lucas, wipe the sleep from your eyes!

Today both your grandfathers have BIRTHDAYS!

Whatever shall we give them?

An at-home haircut, a favorite of the men in our family???

Or perhaps a ride in the canoe???

Nah....too cold and snowy out there!

Strike a pose, give them a smile, and send those birthday wishes on their way!

Happy birthday to BOTH the grandpas on your shared, special day!

Christmastime is here....

2007-11-27T21:10:00.001-05:00

Lucas and lights....could there be more holiday charm?

The angels meet at the tree--the consequences of a preschooler

decorating by clumping all ornaments into categories!

Kyra and Matt enjoying Grandpa's pickup truck,

after delivering another load of firewood!

A swirl of smoke rises from the chimney. Ah, warmth....

While a bit early for some families, the celebration is in full swing here in CT! Enjoy some images of winter and Christmas arriving to our home.

Giving thanks, all hour--day--year long

2007-11-26T09:02:00.000-05:00

I'll admit it--I'm poor with transitions, particularly the little ones through which most people glide. Sunday afternoon to evening is tough for me, particularly after an extra long weekend at home. Around 4pm I feel my stomach drop a bit as I realize time is "running out"--time at home, that is. Though I love my work, I crave more time at home, and the Monday morning return to work always looms larger than it should.

It was looming particularly large when the kids began waking continuously from 2:30-4am early this morning. While Matt did all of the getting up, soothing and comforting, those constant wake-ups (resulting in Matt resting on the couch downstairs and both kids on top of me in our bed at 4am) gave me more than enough time to ponder that yes, indeed, Monday morning was very nearly upon me. And approaching Monday morning from a state of sleeplessness is all the worse, typically.

As is often the case on this blog and in my life, I decided on my drive in I needed to extend the Thanksgiving holiday....I needed to express my gratitude on this, a sleepy, stressful Monday. It's easy to say a grace of thanksgiving when surrounded by family on a warm day at home with a table full of turkey, gravy and corn casserole before me. It turns out it's easy on rainy Monday mornings as well!

In no particular order, here are some of the things I'm grateful for today....

the clever person who determined that in between the green and red lights there should be a yellow to provide ample warning to slow down--how many lives has that yellow light saved?
a steaming hot cup of coffee....a true pleasure this morning, in particular!
a particular stretch of road on my drive to work where the trees hang fully over the road--it feels as though I am deep in the forest, held in the embrace of the trees
having two walkable legs on which I carry myself to my office, and two workable arms that could load in all my bags of work this morning
leaving Lucas and Matt beside the Christmas tree this morning, snuggling on the couch as they read a book together
the deep sighs that both of my kids make periodically as they sleep
work that provides for my family, and in many ways inspires and motivates me....even on a Monday!

Now back to that coffee....enjoy the day!

Stir crazy

2007-11-24T16:34:00.000-05:00

The kids are wrestling in front of me, trying acrobatics perfected by a pair participating in the Macy's Day parade--an act far too advanced for my little ones. If I were smart I would have 911 dialed into the telephone just in case. Instead, I'm marveling once again (as I do any time I'm home with the kids alone all day) that Matt does this Every Single Day.

We're very different--if our kids were to depict for you "Mommy days" and "Daddy days," the pictures would be opposite in many ways. Matt's first instinct is to head outdoors. The kids dress themselves for the weather of the day, accomodating a span of some 80 degrees between their winter and summer playtime. Alternating between playing football with the kids and having an eye on them from a distance as he chops wood or rakes leaves, Matt thrives outdoors. It is now 4:45pm, and having had a day home with me, the kids have yet to see the great outdoors. I'm an inside kind of gal.

I suppose our instincts are similar, we just act on them in different domains. In between a few games of UNO, making collages with old magazines, and reading a Christmas story, I've managed to change all the beds, do a detailed vacuuming of all the upstairs and half the downstairs, put up the Christmas tree, and continually keep the kitchen table wiped down. Just as it is Matt's nature to shore up the outdoor resources for winter (the hunter in him, perhaps), I am continually cleaning a little here, neatening a little there (the gatherer in me, I suspect).

But I would be wise to follow Matt's example. My indoor kids are playing games that are better suited to the outdoors, and the volume level is rising by the moment. We're heading to a town celebration this evening for a parade and fireworks, and I can only threaten so many times to take this happy occasion away....off to the tub, threatening all along the way....

I asked both kids if they had something to add to this post. Lucas, always feeling guilty about some misdemeanor, immediately said, "Sorry???" Kyra's message is simple: "That's okay." You have to wonder about these kids!

Wildly wide awake

2007-11-09T23:27:00.000-05:00

Friday night is "movie night" in our home, and while this once might have included overpriced popcorn and previews too violent for open eyes, of late it has been movies like "The Rookie" or "The Muppet Movie" with microwave popcorn for four. If my week has been like most of my weeks are, about 15 minutes into the movie, I'm attentive and watching, and about 30 minutes into the movie, I'm sound asleep.

Being awake on this Friday as the clock pushes on toward midnight feels positively reckless....particularly when I need to be at work at 8am for a conference. But I'm awake, nonetheless, and wild though that concept might be, tomorrow evening will bring a nap, I hope. Matt and the kids are away, visiting his parents while I trudge through a variety of work and school events that would have me feeling like a poor, absent parent if they were home, but attentive and loyal to my employer with them away.

It's strange to be alone in the house. I'm never alone in the house. When I open the door at 5:30 or 6pm each evening, I see Matt typically standing at the stove, and the first child to see me yells, "Mommy's home!" and comes rushing toward the door for a hug. It is a moment of bliss in days that are sometimes stressful and long. So what to do when they are away and there are no sounds, no hugs, no dinner on the stove when I come in?

First of all, I attended a concert. It was more the type of concert I would have attended in college than now--Bethany Dillon, Sanctus Real and Steven Curtis Chapman. I've been a casual fan of the music of Bethany and Steven for some time now, though, and they were playing down the road for a more than reasonable price. I won't enter into the full existential crisis I experience when I attend so-called Christian events and try to determine my current fit in that crowd. I will simply say that I enjoyed the message of love--the message that right now in this moment I am being loved...you are being loved...we are all being loved. And I enjoyed that Steven was up there playing with his two sons in the band--the 18 year old on guitar and the 16 year old a maniac on the drums. It was a wonderful illustration of how we might grow and learn and change with our kids. It was a reminder that I really, deeply, truly love my family. As I drove home, I did something I almost never do--I spoke aloud to God. I asked God--whether Being, Force, Big Person on High, Bold Idea in my Mind, Energy, or Pure Love--to open my eyes wide to the gift of my family.

I returned home to a still-quiet abode--listening attentively for any scratching or scurrying to indicate that the mouse Matt cheerfully released from our basement earlier had returned. Luckily no sounds--and so far no mouse. (I told Matt he would return home to a feline member of the family if a mouse pops in for a visit while I'm here alone.) I walked down to the basement (showing the mouse I'm not afraid!) and noticed for the first time all the wood Matt has been diligently stacking in the basement to keep us warm through the winter. It is literally stacked from floor to ceiling, and with it, the woodstove hums happily of heat for the whole house. Signs of Matt's love for us and his care for our home are everywhere, but particularly evident these days in the basement. We have an extra refrigerator/freezer combo stacked with food primarily purchased by him to be prepared almost exclusively by him. Where piles of laundry could sit are stacks of empty baskets--the clothes are clean and put away. And yes, of course, there is all that wood--as much as my eyes could take in. God was answering my prayer--I was noticing, seeing, and fully appreciating this member of my family.

I came upstairs to write this tale of love, of prayers answered, of satisfaction for having what I have and being where I am, and suddenly an alert popped up to add my in-laws' Skype address to my contacts list. As I was writing about the bliss of this knowing and noticing, I actually had a chance to see and speak with my muse of the moment--and now my eyes are not only open, I am wildly wide awake. Noticing. Appreciating. Feeling grateful.

Reach out and touch someone

2007-10-24T21:51:00.000-04:00

Do you remember AT&T's slogan? With the omnipresence of cell phones, and the immediate access of text and instant messaging, the notion of an "old-fashioned" phone conversation seems horribly antiquated. And given that I have access to all of these tools at once, that old-fashioned phone call is rarely the intimate experience it can or should be. I have many friends with whom I'm speaking by phone, reading email, and sometimes even simultaneously glancing at a message on my cell phone.

Technology frustrates me, even as I rely on it for my work and personal connections. During a strategic planning meeting for the University yesterday, the dizzying array of future possibilities courtesy of and dependent on technology left me with a headache. I was ready to fold up all things digital and toss them in a bin for the rest of the day. (Notice that I still refer to the digitized world as something I can put my hands on and put away!) How fortunate I am that I didn't do so.

We've been experimenting with Skype (we're behind, I know, but it's "new" and fun for us!), typically speaking with my sister in Boston. The timing is ideal, as she is about to undergo radioactive iodine treatment for thyroid cancer and will need to live in isolation for a time. Skype will allow us to "see" her each day, and brings the energy of our kids briefly into her home. While testing out a new microphone last night, we were able to be in her home--noting the clothes drying rack, looking with her for her cat, and catching her peering back at the TV. (Television is so 1980s, don't you think?)

We originally bought the videocamera in order to see my grandparents in Florida. They are living at 90 and 91, but my grandfather has cancer and is quite certainly dying, and we wanted to be more present to their lives than we are able to be via the phone. After "hanging up" with my sister, we gave a call to Nana and Father, as we know them. I originally tried via the landline, and my grandfather sounded tired....a tired that concerned me about what I'm missing in not being there now. But then we switched to the camera, and I could see him--could see that the exhaustion in his voice wasn't fully in his face, and could appreciate knowing that they are there, together, amongst friends, and alive for every minute they are given to be so. I loved blowing them kisses, sharing our mutual enthusiasm for a family visit coming up in January, and being in their living room for a few minutes.

The "bug" of being with family had bitten, and so we placed yet another call--this time to my sister-in-law and her family in Oregon. All four of them popped in front of the laptop, and when we confessed to missing a number of home updates in the four and a half years since our last visit, my sister-in-law picked up the laptop and took us on a refresher tour of the house. It was awkward at times (I was the only extravert in the mix of seven of us "talking" for an hour or so!), lovely to see them in their happy home, and a wonderful reminder that technology is only one part headache.

It's also part home.

Drumroll, please....

2007-10-03T21:17:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking for a long time that I'd like to cut my hair short--perhaps the idea has been with me for years, but it has become more persistent in the past six months or so. Since the move I haven't had a regular hairstylist, and every random shop I would visit would find me face to face with another person who would smile, ask if I was really ready, and then proceed to just trim my hair. Today I was not going to take "No" for an answer! Thanks to Sue, I was feeling courageous and ready to listen to my own voice and reasons rather than the hairstyling naysayers I keep meeting!

The morning "before" look....

And after....

I love it! And perhaps by Friday I won't still walk by the mirror saying, "Huh??? Who is that?"

For fun....

2007-09-21T00:00:00.000-04:00

Fall musings

2007-09-18T23:14:00.000-04:00

Autumn is arriving in New England. We have fallen leaves already covering the lawn, and the kids are chilly enough to wear footy pajamas, sleep under heaping mounds of comforters, and still bring their bodies to our bed for warmth in the early morning hours. Though the temperature is rumored to rise in the next few days, tonight we have a fire in the fireplace and it could as easily be mid-January as it is mid-September.

The kids have both begun school. Kyra departs each day with an, "I don't want to go to school," attitude, and returns with pleasure that she's been. Somehow the joy in her day doesn't translate in the early morning--and I can't say I'm terribly different. Though I find my work richly satisfying most days, it is a rare morning when I'm jumping to get there. We're a lucky family. We love one another, we love being together, and it is difficult to drag us out into the rest of the world on many days.

Lucas is bravely heading off to preschool two mornings a week. He puts his feet timidly on the white line, awaiting his handle on their class rope--the tool they use in the early weeks to get the kids to walk together and stay in a straight line. I'd like a rope some days with explicit instructions for where to hang on; I'll gladly follow along! The good news from his first day sounded something like this: "No one cried today!" I shared this remark with a colleague from work, and she questioned if perhaps we should evaluate our days on a similar scale. Hmmm....

It is a strange mix--this cluster of new beginnings and the shortening days, signaling the year's end. Even in the slow decay, the colors promise a vivid spring to come. The only constant is change.

Day of rest?

2007-08-26T21:14:00.000-04:00

For the past few Sundays, I've been working to honor the day as a day of rest and restoration. (My use of the word "working" in such a sentence is telling, is it not? I have to leave it there!) Today was no exception--we woke after a decent night's sleep (the kids had a much-wanted sleepover at Auntie's house), ate a leisurely breakfast (OK--we ate breakfast, even if not leisurely), taught Sunday School at church, and then took the new-to-us canoe we picked up last night out onto the river. I grumbled for a few minutes before settling into a comfortable position on my knees, and then felt suitably energized to paddle up, then down, then up river again on the meandering Farmington.

As we were nearing the close of our drift, we heard a family arguing anxiously on the other side of a tree lying across the river. The parents were in a double kayak, and each of their three children was in a single. A daughter was standing on-shore, a middle son was holding tightly to a rope swing from a neighboring tree trying to orchestrate the rescue, a younger son was tipping precariously as the current caught the side of his kayak, and the parents were hollering opposing instructions to all three of their children as the daughter's kayak slipped further under their boat and the water by the moment. Matt and I offered help, but served as little more than an audience to their eventual rescue of one another--and I suppose this was actually a meaningful purpose. When there are strangers watching, suddenly the arguing subsides and the productive problem-solving begins. Just a few moments later we were all on our way, Matt and I feeling gratitude once again that we had tried this first launch without the kids.

We met Auntie and the kids at a rendezvous halfway between her home and ours, and all lamented the Sunday New England traffic that awaited us. After a short bumper to bumper stretch, Matt and I opted for the road less traveled, choosing to take back roads and move rather than the main drag and sit. For a time, all was bliss--the kids watched the end of a movie on their DVD player, and Matt and I hummed along to the new Lori McKenna CD. The sun was a brilliant gold as it prepared to set, and we patted ourselves on the back for selecting the windy, scenic route. It was, for a time, a drive of rest to go along with my day of rest.

All holidays must end as we know, however, and the movie concluded, the windy road extended still further out in front of us, and the kids' lack of sleep at last night's slumber-free party caught up with them. When the kids weren't arguing with one another, they were wailing in their separate corners. Despite pulling over to take "the big" (as we call the big sister) for a walk, and soon thereafter purchasing both kids a bottle of water, they were not fit for road travel....and I suppose neither were we.

With only ten minutes remaining to our drive, my mother-in-law called. I can only imagine what we must have sounded or looked like for those minutes. In order to hear my mother-in-law I had my index finger jammed so hard into my non-phone ear that the nail left a mark still visible in the mirror. Matt was reaching through our seats, over the DVD player, to mediate between the kids while driving around a treacherously twisty road at dusk. The kids, in a word, were done. After withdrawing all privileges--return visits to Auntie's, evening storytime, tomorrow morning's television, eating, breathing or living under the same roof with us--we pulled into the driveway. Day of restlessness felt more apt to our experience than day of rest.

We were walking into the house when Kyra pulled out the words she hoped would wound. "You're not a good parent," she hissed at me as I fished through my purse for my keys. There were muttered words about not wanting to be or live here with us, and likely some laments about ever having to leave Auntie. If being human robs me of parental goodness, she's right. Whether caught up in a downed tree with the current flowing toward us or caught by Sunday evening traffic, the flaws of our families are sometimes too apparent....too visible for the seen and unseen audiences around us.

I suppose a day of rest is not about the usual "rules" I apply to it--no work, no computer (which leads invariably to work--I'm breaking this rule now!), no television. No distractions is really what I'm trying to achieve. Instead of focusing on those "no" qualities of such a day, however, maybe I should focus on the "yes." Yes to considering God and my family in a reflective, present manner. Yes to enjoying nature and a slower pace. Yes to accepting forgiveness--even for being a "bad parent"--and starting anew once again.

A faculty colleague said the other day, "It's never too late in the day to begin the day again." 9:36pm. I have some rest to attend to.

On the day you were born....

2007-08-13T21:19:00.000-04:00

I've loved the book "On the Day You Were Born" by Debra Frasier from the very first moment I picked it up. The notion that all of creation--this masterful web to and through which we are all connected--celebrates the arrival of a single innocent, beautiful child felt and feels so true. So tomorrow I join with creation once again in remembering the moment six years ago when my dear daughter arrived to greet me cheek to cheek, eye to eye.

If given the opportunity to return to just two moments in my life, without hesitation I would go to that moment of bliss and wonder when each of my children were placed in my arms, lifted there by the most exceptional partner a person could want. We, and they, are blessed.

Thank you, God. Miracles abound, each and every moment.

The Banquet

2007-07-15T16:15:00.000-04:00

From my seventh grade fall through the summer following my college graduation, my family called Martha's Vineyard home. When you share such a place was your "growing up home," people oooh and aaah, of course--I'm quick to tell them, however, that we lived there when I was springing out on my own, ready to leave home and carve out my own life. As a result, I often lived away for some part of the summer, whether for the whole summer to work at beautiful Pathfinder Lodge in the equally-wonderful Cooperstown, NY, or to attend a study program for a period of weeks when the boats were filled to capacity and the streets pulsing with the bodies craving a taste of the many Vineyard delights. For that ten year period, there was only one summer when I lived home for the entire summer.

I had accepted a summer internship--a ministry role with a local camp, providing much-needed practical experience in my chosen field of Youth Ministry, and earning the credits I was awaiting as I worked my way toward graduation. Somewhere early in that summer my mother crafted a list for what we called "A Very Vineyard Summer," posting it on the refrigerator and checking off the activities as we experienced them. Whether picking strawberries from a local farm (my mother always insisted the high prices presumed a certain amount of field consumption), visiting a favorite beach for an evening sunset, or eating breakfast at the famed Black Dog, we dove into that summer and devoured each and every day. Somewhere along the way there was a wonderful newspaper editorial naming every season of Vineyard life a satisfying meal, but declaring summer "the banquet." We ate ourselves into a stupor that summer, figuratively and literally--capping off the three months together with a James Taylor concert at then Great Woods in Mansfield, MA. It was a very Vineyard summer indeed.

Eight months later my mother was gone, dead of pancreatic cancer that crept into her body long before it crept into our vocabulary. We knew of her cancer for only a month prior to her death, but there are days when I know that our very Vineyard summer sprung out of a place of deep knowing--a recognition that defies conscious awareness, but guides and leads our actions nevertheless. That summer was a fine, fine gift, and I treasure it still.

Perhaps because of these summer memories, I've approached summer as the banquet ever since. In our new Connecticut home, we have what I call "an embarrassment of riches"--our napkins are tucked in at our necks, our silverware raised, and we're eating course after course after course of a life of beauty and delight. The summer's treasures thus far....

Basketball, bikes and tennis in our expansive driveway and yard--some evenings we bounce the tennis ball off the kids' helmets as they circle us full-speed on their bikes.
The July 3rd (it rained on the 4th!) concert at Hartford Symphony's summer home in Simsbury, followed by fireworks worthy of a far larger community than this.
Experimental vegetable gardening--no harvest yet due to late planting, but the fun of watching edible life springing out of the ground from seeds as small as the eye can behold.
More concert pleasures....two Lori McKenna concerts, one with Faith Hill and Tim McGraw.
Fruit, fruit and more fruit purchased from local farm stands and our many area grocery stores--the juice literally drips down our chins and necks as we suck down these delights.
Evening drives to the many destinations near our new home--the large sycamore tree along the Farmington River is a favorite.
And what would a list of summer pleasures be without another mention of our trip to New Hampshire's Storyland, many days visiting Auntie in Boston and Grandma and Grandpa in upstate New York, and two blissful days with my niece from Oregon visiting us in CT. Heaven on earth in many different forms!

Our dear friends have just packed their car and pulled away from an overnight visit of laughter, loud shouts from children playing happily together, and countless hours sitting on the screen porch watching the sun move across the sky in yet another perfect arc. From this weekend banquet I feel filled to capacity--as though I couldn't eat another bite. The tents are up in the yard, though, and a summer storm is rolling in--let the next course begin....

Home again

2007-06-24T17:07:00.000-04:00

We've returned from a Boston work conference and our annual pilgrimage to Storyland--one of those treasures I am still so grateful to have found through friends. We had the pleasure of a washer and dryer in our resort unit--a surprise, as we were given a free upgrade--and so we even have clean laundry. Can you imagine how sweet such a homecoming is with work and a new summer camp starting up in the morning? The clean clothes are nearly all put away, and we have a beautiful, sunlit evening ahead of us to simply enjoy being home.

We've all settled into our favorite spaces. The kids are sitting at the dining room table coloring pictures, while several feet away in what we affectionately (and practically) call "the piano room," there are toys of every make and manner spread across the futon and the floor. I found my way to my music pile and the piano (perhaps it was a few songs belted out that pushed the kids to the table!), and Matt was out in the yard, watering the garden, repairing the bird feeder (a dead branch brought his daily source of entertainment crashing down!), and breathing in all that green. Our kind neighbors delivered our garbage can and recycle bins to our door, without our even remembering to ask them, and we are celebrating once again this choice we made for our lives. We Love Where We Live.

Thank God for vacation. Gone are the too many hours in the car, the four letter words when it became apparent that yet another bag would need to be held on a lap, and the no-nap afternoons that stretched precariously through whiny evenings. With us are memories of swimming in the pool, closing down Storyland as we raced from one last ride to another, a visit from Auntie to celebrate our favorite little guy turning three, and that wonderful ironic pleasure in appreciating home by leaving it behind.

Noticing

2007-06-08T10:16:00.000-04:00

Our kids share a room in the new Connecticut house, and at bedtime, Matt and I are often lounging there with them as we try to settle their boisterous energy (on days when they've napped) or ease their tired heads into quick sleep (on days when they've only "rested"). When we're not racing downstairs to watch American Idol (forgive us, God!) or, currently, Six Feet Under on DVD, these are the most cherished moments in the day. Whether smelling sweet or sweaty, the kids are always revealing in the dark. As we say our thank you prayers, we find out what they most remember from the day (or month, as sometimes they are most thankful for any recent "grand" event)--whether the Memorial Day parade, the book about the firetrucks, playing outside with Daddy, or bathtime with Mommy. We hear that they love us, and they give us clutching, around the neck hugs that squeeze out air and squeeze in pure bliss.

Perhaps they are no more revealing than usual, but we have slowed down sufficiently to really hear them. One night not long ago, I was lying next to Kyra, rubbing her back and listening to Lucas's squeaky whisper voice as he attempted to tell some story to Matt, my mirror image in Lucas's bed. Lucas has progressed a great deal in his speech, after months--no, years--of worry with his continuous ear infections. Despite that he talks like the pre-school bound, almost three year old boy that he is, he still cannot say the letter "r." It always has a bit of "w" to it, and for the life of me, I can't give him a gesture, image or trick to get it to be an "r." "Roar" becomes "woaw." "Ruff" becomes "wuff." When I'm not worried that his lovely pre-school teachers will wonder what the heck we've been doing with him for the past year, I find this little w-sounding "r" to be quite precious. There must have been an "r" somewhere in the chatter that night in the bedroom, because I distinctly remember squeezing my eyes shut and praying, "Please God, let me always remember this."

And of course, as always happens when one grabs the camera, closes the eyes, tries to seal in the moment, the moment slipped away. I realized immediately that I couldn't remember Kyra at two-almost-three. I didn't know if she had a special "r" or if her whisper was squeaky like her brother's. I can remember that she said "opiemeal" for "oatmeal" and "aminal" for "animal" (come to think of it, she might still do that one....), but the sounds and the feelings they prompted in me were gone. And I realized just as quickly that I wasn't sorry. Replaced with distinct, clear images of her current articulate, imaginative, five-almost-six self, my sense of the wonder of Now Kyra is so full, I don't have a lot of room for Then Kyra. And so I prayed again. "Please God, let me always notice them."

Let me be awake, alive, aware and present, and really, truly notice them--notice and appreciate whatever is special in that moment.

What I'm noticing today:

Matt slid quietly out of bed for his early morning basketball, so I first noticed his absence when my alarm went off. I noticed how he still takes my breath away when he walked back in wearing a new-to-him sweatshirt and shining like the morning work-out had done a world of good.
Lucas is wearing a favorite pair of shorts--navy and white checked. From his sister he has learned phrases like, "Are my favorite shorts in the laundry?" and "Don't they make me look cute?" (For those of you who know Kyra, this particular phrase of hers seems hysterical, doesn't it?) He's wearing his sister's old socks today, and he was running from place to place, as though the blue stripe around the ankle was high octane gasoline. The boy is made for speed.
We celebrated Kyra's summer birthday with her school friends today; I read a story to the class. I noticed how she is at once pained and delighted by attention, and that we must somehow persist past the embarrassment to give her that instant of pleasure. When I thanked all the kids for being friends with Kyra this year--a potentially hard year with moving in the midst of school, one boy said, "Only Camrie is [her friend]." I felt a little sting, but then remembered how Kyra had been looking at Camrie all morning and thought, "Extraverted Momma, don't make your introverted girl thrive in a room full of people. Let her revel in the company of one--she is happy."

Notice, notice, notice....

Nearest Emergency Room, anyone?

2007-05-02T22:00:00.000-04:00

Ever since our move, Matt and I have joked about our need to find the closest hospital. In Massachusetts we lived literally two minutes from the hospital. (Those two minutes felt like infinity plus two as we were racing there for the arrival of baby #1!) Here in our riverside Connecticut home, hospitals are nowhere to be found. When the kids are particularly rambunctious, Matt will say only half in jest, "Do we have the GPS set for hospitals?"

On Monday I borrowed the GPS (a gift from Matt's former colleagues) to attend a conference in Schenectady, happily buzzing around miscellaneous side streets in East Longmeadow, MA, searching for a Starbucks that promised to be just a mile away but took a half hour to find! The satellite's interpretation of a direct route is sometimes mind-boggling. But Starbucks-searching aside, I was glad for the moment by moment directions. (Foreshadow....foreshadow.... pay attention here!)

Midway through the day I pulled out my cell phone to use the calculator function. Surprisingly, there was a voicemail message from Matt. Though I occasionally receive "I pooped on the potty" calls from Lucas, I immediately had a bad feeling when I saw the message signal flashing. My instincts were correct. Matt was seeking assistance in finding the nearest emergency room. If I had a minute, could I give a call?

Fortunately, he gave additional details. Rather than our usual fear of one of the kids crashing into the brick fireplace mantle or tumbling from the playset in the backyard, the "patient" in this instance was Matt. He was cutting one last board with the table saw, eager to finish a piece for the aforementioned playset before getting lunch together and racing off to an ear check for Lucas. When his right index finger took the final cut of the saw along with the board he was sliding, lunch became bagels in the ER, and Lucas's doctor appointment was postponed in favor of his father's more urgent need.

Always the picture of calm, Matt managed to assure me at least twice in this original message--"Really, it's no big deal. Just a couple of stitches, maybe. But if you could call with any idea of where a hospital might be...." I was listening to the message nearly three hours after it was sent, so my return call was of little help. By this point, Matt had actually accessed directions on the Internet, packed a little lunch, worked his newly-potty-trained son into a diaper (no easy feat, some of you will recognize!), and coaxed the big sister into getting her brother's shoes on and packing books for entertainment. Do you see why I love this man? I have reached for the phone to dial 9-1-1 over a split lip. Matt slices his finger in a saw and still manages to remember the diaper bag and his sense of humor.

I'll skip the gory details, few of which I know. The finger is intact, and Matt is bound for a specialist on Friday to see if he might need plastic surgery. We're all feeling that human mix of extreme gratitude and extreme inconvenience, with gratitude happily winning out most of the time. Matt is missing basketball (indulging in the play-offs as I type!), but he'll be back!

And in the meantime, if you want to find the nearest ER, just give him a call.

The days to remember....

2007-04-12T23:06:00.000-04:00

....Kyra riding her bike without training wheels after just one "supported run" with Matt and a few minutes of coasting with her feet along the ground....

....Kyra and Lucas both attempting to tell knock-knock jokes with their 5 and 2 year old sense of rhythm and comic content....

Knock Knock.

Who's there?

Tree

Tree who?

Tree, tree--bucket truck, won't you cut down me?

(Insert roaring, belly laughter here! While I appreciated the sing-song, poetic nature of this joke told by Kyra as we drove to school this morning, I do think we need to work a bit on her environmental sensibilities!)

....Lucas's perpetual challenge to my belief that anatomy is NOT destiny. With words like "shoot" and "kill" coming from his mouth despite no exposure to TV, day care (no longer since he's home with peace-loving Daddy) and bigger children, I'm honestly starting to wonder....

....Kyra recently discovered the word "damn" all on her own. While we've explained that swears are adult words for very strong feelings and reactions--words we are very careful about using around strangers--she is having a great time trying it out at home. Remind me of my amusement and complacency when her "words that rhyme with bam" game becomes "words that rhyme with truck...."

Pure love!

Staying home for now....

2007-02-01T09:43:00.000-05:00

The signs are all around the house, I'm certain. Interview notes in folders now closed, day care cost sheets slipped into files or recycle bins, and a palpable feeling of relief. The sign that most leaped out at me, though, were the socks--a neatly rolled pile of dress socks now stored on a high shelf in the closet. No longer in the drawers, but not out the door, either. A sign that the questions are answered, the arrangements are settled....for now.

Without sharing extensive details (something I obviously have not made time for in quite awhile!), I'll simply share that Matt will be home with the kids into at least the summer. There were plenty of dramatic moments--job and interview offers, negotiations, worry about bills and money, renegotiations. And now, a bit of peace....Matt will be home. His professional skills are a natural fit for consulting, allowing him to earn the money we need with minimal time on-site or actually "on the job." With roughly one day a month, he can bridge the gap between what we have and what we truly need to pay the bills. We've decided that earning what we need, rather than what we want, feels good and right for the moment. For three months we've learned to live on less. Eating out is a want. Movies can be watched at home, and there are years ahead for expensive babysitters, concerts, the theatre. Do we miss it? Of course, a teeny-tiny bit. But most importantly, we have a child who suffered from chronic illnesses who is suddenly well without day care exposure. And that seems worth more consideration than season tickets to the symphony or a summer vacation away from home.

Now we settle in, and we witness to the feelings that arise from the situation of this moment. Relief? Of course....Matt's commitment to home gives me the space to be committed to a job that really requires my attention and time. Envy? A little....Believing that we could never have afforded my being home, I never seriously pursued the opportunity. I limped along in a part-time plus job, earning less than my value, and feeling always somehow inadequate at work or at home. Pride? Absolutely....I honor those parts of me that both earn my family's care and keep, and that placed Matt's next few months in the space of possibility and trust rather than worry and control. And I must mention my pride in Matt--in the courage it takes to step out of the world of work and truly invest himself in the life of a home. Where it will lead? Who of us ever knows....

For now, the socks remain in the closet, the suits on their hangers, and my kids delight in reading Jesse Bear books, reminding us when Jesse's father appears at the end of the day that it is their mom, not their dad, who comes home at dinnertime. For now, it is good....

Christmas Vacation

2007-01-02T12:22:00.000-05:00

While I've never hidden how delightfully "low brow" my family's sense of entertainment is, the Christmas holidays and our associated rituals bring us to new lows. Case in point....I actually felt a twinge of disappointment when my brother-in-law said he was bringing a rib roast for Christmas Eve dinner, replacing for this year only my decades-old family tradition of roasting hot dogs over an open fire (or in the microwave when there's no open fire or the kids are too hungry to wait!). No worries--we simply ate the hot dogs for lunch that day!

Another favorite Christmas ritual? We always gather together to watch the movie "Christmas Vacation." We laugh until tears roll out of our eyes, each year exclaiming, "I don't know if it's funny or sad that this feels so true!" Well, with Christmas 2006 behind us, I can say that Christmas Vacation is sad indeed when it really is true. After delighting in our roast, we woke Christmas morning to the unexpected death of a beloved pet, and only days later to the news of a family member's lost job and related lost year-end bonus. Ugh....the movies come to life are never terribly entertaining.

Here's hoping 2007 brings a little less change in our home, and a little more peace and happiness for all....

Trading places

2006-11-09T15:34:00.000-05:00

My grandmother ("Nana" to me) wrote a letter prior to my departure this summer to share a message which had been weighing heavily on her mind and heart. Essentially, she wrote that she knew my being away from my family for a time, while painful, would ultimately create the possibility for our success in this new venture of a high-profile working mom, a low-profile working some dad, and two still-fabulous growing kids. Matt previously held the work position of family priority. Sick child? Mom is home. Vacation from school, but work still open? Mom is home. Waking in the middle of the night seeking comfort? Call for Mommy--she'll wake first. Of course our circumstances weren't as pure and divided as this, but I did have the flexible, part-time job. And my grandmother knew we had made a choice to very intentionally change this. She said, "I want you to know that I do not see it as all bad if you have to go to Hartford alone for a few weeks. You are going to have to realize that your relationship with your children must change to a certain degree, and this would offer you and Matt the chance to teach Kyra and Lucas that you are going to have to LEAVE them at certain times--and BE WITH THEM AT CERTAIN TIMES." (I haven't yet asked if she regretted sending the letter as a few weeks expanded into a few months....) The emphasis is hers, and I suspect it was chosen with great intention. She could see that we couldn't change our instincts and our behaviors nearly so quickly as we could change jobs, homes and circumstances. Wise, isn't she?

For my first week in Connecticut, I asked Matt each evening what the kids had eaten for breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks.... By my second week in Connecticut, I was handing over birthday party planning responsibilities. Make sure we have a cake, confirm the reservation, who remains to RSVP??? By my third week in Connecticut, I asked more open-ended questions--How was your day? Who did you see at school today? When three months had passed, I was no longer concerned about food intake or sleep cycles, any responsibilities handed over went from Matt to me as he now had full control of the kids' day to day lives, and I managed to completely forget the kids' doctor and dentist appointments. And you know what? They still made it, and Matt handled the scheduling, the remembering and the getting there just fine. He was never incapable; rather, I was inserting myself into the control seat for virtually every choice, decision and event in their lives. More often than not, this is what mothers do. And in mother/father families, this same behavior sometimes translates to criticism of the father's lack of attention, involvement and ability. I've been guilty of the same.

I realized in my time away, these patterns are learned. While biology might influence our gendered behaviors--after all, I did have nine extra months of individualized attention to my growing child's every need--it needn't determine how we function. Of course the feminist in me understood this rationally, but I certainly didn't live the part. I know there are mothers in my circle who would be offended to hear their children cry for "Daddy" with each bruised knee or unusual sound in the night. I continue to delight in this cry. I know their affection for Matt in no way limits their affection for me. Rather, their attachment to him frees me....and this was just the change we were seeking. There are still squeals of delight when a parent walks through the door at the end of the day--but they are now for me. There are still hugs to hold them and hands for brushing away tears--but often these are Matt's hugs and hands. We are a better family for our time apart, and for the new way we have constructed ourselves. I'm certainly a better woman, and I hope Matt and the kids find themselves to be better, too. Again to Nana's letter...."Do not expect to be the same mother you are now--that will never be. But you can become known as a mother who knew how to put it all together." I hope I'm on my way.

Well, Nana, when you're nearly 90 years old, I guess you have ability to look at life with a wide-angle lens. When I couldn't see clearly myself, and I was struggling through the day to day separation, it helped me to know there was this greater perspective supporting me, guiding me and praying for me. Thank you. Later in the letter, you advised me to "put finding a good babysitter high on your priority list." I'm off to work on that....

Home

2006-11-03T09:08:00.000-05:00

This was going to be a post of great eloquence or understated simplicity. Perhaps I would post only a picture of our new home, nestled amongst trees beside the Farmington River. Perhaps I would pour out some of the intense emotional struggle I experienced living more away from than with my family for three months. Perhaps I would share some of the humorous remarks from our kids as they make their way into a new home, town and life once again with a family of four.

Instead I will share only this--we dropped our daughter off for kindergarten at her new school five minutes late. (Insert the "we suck" line here, or delete if the word offends you!) Despite setting an alarm, hustling everyone through the house, driving down the street with frosty windows (yes, I know how dangerous it is not to defrost!!!) and skipping breakfast for the adults, we were still late. And like all aspects of this crazy story of jobs and moves and changes, our lateness was somehow just the key. After pulling a reticent five year old through the halls of her new school yesterday, today there was no time to think or hold back or resist. We rushed down the hall to her classroom, hung her coat and backpack on her hook, gave her a pat and pointed her toward her new friends already seated on the rug. No time for tears, last hugs, or even a picture with the camera I had so dutifully carried in. We were late....or just on time.

Progress

2006-08-21T16:34:00.000-04:00

When I accepted an out-of-state position, I automatically assumed it would include an in-that-same-state home and school for my children--particularly for Kyra to have the traditional first day of kindergarten send-off. Despite my relative silence in recent months, most any post I've written has referred to the selling of our home....more aptly referred to as the marketing of our home that still refuses to sell. "No worries," we told ourselves earlier in the summer. "It's new to the market, and no one is buying on the 4th of July....or in early August....or in late August....or despite the drop in interest rates." Would I have accepted this role if I had known it would mean a sojourn of yet-to-be determined length away from my best friend and partner, and more gut-wrenching still, my two and five year olds? Could I have accepted this role if I had known how it would feel on Sunday evening to face the prospect of days and nights away from their sticky fingers and slippery soft tub-time skin? It's hard to say....

A colleague and friend at the Women at Work Museum in Attleboro, MA debuted a new documentary in January to honor the 20 year history and legacy of the Challenger mission and tragedy. Centered around the life of Christa McAuliffe, the documentary brought back to life my image of the woman chosen to be the first teacher in space. The image from the documentary that caught my eye and mind, however, was that of Christa McAuliffe as mother. Believing herself to have the opportunity of a lifetime, Christa not only took a year long leave of absence from her school in Concord, NH, she also took leave of her family, moving to Houston and relying on phone calls and too-infrequent visits to connect with her children and husband. Her kids were young--six and nine, I believe--and they were swept along, willingly or not, on their mom's mission and ultimate loss.

I don't for an instant pretend that my pioneering move to Connecticut resembles Christa McAuliffe's move to Houston and eventual goal of space travel, but I suspect seeing her sacrifice, and the sacrifice of her family, created the foundation on which I could make this decision. Though the job I now have wasn't yet crafted, and I wasn't yet certain I would search my way into a new role, the seeds of possibility and progress were planted. Whereas centuries have passed with men leaving their families behind for days, weeks, or months on end, it still feels new to much of the world for mothers to have anything but a part-time role out of the home and in the world. Christa's tragic death can detract from her courageous choice, sometimes bringing me too close to the risk and the "what if?" worries as I pull out of my driveway. More often, though, I am reminded that mothers are mothers both in and out of their homes. I set aside the "what if?" worries, and I drive to a decision I believe will ultimately be right for me and my family both. Along the road, I take comfort in knowing there are many others like me--mothers who are full-time students, mothers employed in full-time plus roles near to home, mothers blazing a trail to a new family destination and opportunity, and mothers serving overseas in lands and circumstances that make my two hour drive home seem like heaven on earth. Last night--that infamous Sunday evening--the progress that brought me the opportunity to work and live away from my children felt like anything but. Today I'm trying to relish in the joy of where I am and what I'm doing, while still sitting with the sadness of the temporary separation.

I was speaking with a new colleague on the phone the other day. Realizing as though for the first time that I spend my weekdays away from my children she asked, "And who is mother while you're here?" Foolishly I answered, "Their father, and aunt, and day care teachers, and friends." I wish now I had paused with the question and answered with confidence, "I am."

First Day

2006-07-31T15:46:00.000-04:00

After ten wonderful years with the college I worked at previously, I have arrived at my new job. I'm in full beginner mode--learning all the acronyms that make university life a mystery to any outsider or newcomer, mispronouncing building names left and right, and still attempting to get my computer and phone! And you know what? I'm loving every minute of it. Despite the 5am wake-up from my alarm(Free coffee at McDonalds between 5-7am!), the two hour drive to arrive (I'll be staying in CT during the week with a colleague until our MA home sells.), and the usual mayhem associated with starting a brand new program, I believe we have made a great choice for our lives. Over lunch I retold the story of how I came to see the job posting for this new role. After interviewing at super-duper university, knowing in my gut it would be a poor fit if I were even to be offered the role, I sat at my desk and asked aloud, "Is there ever going to be something for me?" Minutes later, I reviewed the Boston Globe ads, searching under the only words I ever seem to use: women and education. My current position popped up at the top of the list. Seek and ye shall find....all I needed to do was ask. Guess I need to stand outside and ask aloud if anyone will ever "love" our house enough to buy it. (This comment reflecting the flood of adoration we seem to hear for our home without any concrete offers yet to bring about our move!) Ah, it will come.... In the meantime, I've got a work honeymoon to enjoy....

Summer pleasures

2006-07-12T12:44:00.000-04:00

Whether imitating penguins, bathing in the sink, eating a picnic lunch with our dearest friends, sharing a laugh in bed, or "meeting dinner," summer thus far has been filled with joys and pleasures. Here's a first pass at sharing the beautiful moments of our favorite season....

Doors and walls

2006-07-05T21:00:00.000-04:00

Matt and I have been hard at work on the attic and basement this week, shifting, sorting, tossing, and shifting some more. We are in that painful stage of any move--opening boxes left closed for our five years in this house, and realizing yet again there are treasures with which we can't yet bear to part. (For someone who complained regularly about the lack of documentation of my life, there are more boxes of photographs than my friend and Creative Memories consultant, Melanie, would know what to do with!) Today I was scaling back my college papers. Because I work in the field of my graduate studies, these papers and notes have been with me at work, and I sifted these down to pure essentials a couple of years ago. For some reason, the college work seems a bit more difficult to recycle--it ties me to a time when my mother was alive, and then not, and I want to read every word to see what hints I left of a life with her in it. While many syllabi and professors' notes are quick to the bin, there is one professor--a scholar of poetry, in particular, and my thesis advisor--whose words I have yet again packed for the move. I offer these wise words from the poet and professor himself:

The Trick of the Architect

The difficulty with life is
Not that the doors opening up into things
Are too little to pass through,
But that they're so massive
We think them the walls.

Jene Erick Beardsley

On the trading floor

2006-07-01T06:18:00.000-04:00

As much as I speak of the infinite potential and possibility of my children's future, I suppose deep down I believe they will end up more or less like Matt and me. This is in some ways justified. My sister now teaches elementary school, following closely in the footsteps of our mother, a lifelong teacher. Though I am not engaged in formal ministry like my father, I am very drawn to roles with an emphasis on people and being a public voice for messages I find critical and compelling....the very skills I saw him exercise for years. Of course there are many, many ways our lives have departed our parents' and moved in entirely unanticipated directions, but some core values remain. (I remember my mother happily wearing hand-me-down clothes given to her from my parents' friends. Much as I wished she had nicer, more suited to her clothing, I also am quite happy shopping at a local thrift store to see what I can find.)

Last night we shared the perfect summer evening with our closest friends--chicken off the grill and pizza; homemade ice cream in cones, dripping pink down the chins and shirts of all four of our collective children; shared baths in the tub for extracting bug spray, sunscreen and sand; and hands waving into the deep blue sky as we departed under the stars. Because the kids play so well together, we can sometimes sit back and share adult conversation or indulge in one of my favorite activities--observing our children while they are oblivious to our presence and fully absorbed in being who they are. As the pajama-clad, squeaky-clean big kids sat snuggling on the coach listening to "Hurry Up, Calliou!" Lucas was on Matt's lap, fully engaged in conversation on a play cell phone. In his not-fully-formed enunciation, he rattled off word after word, tossed in a quick "Buh-bye," and then closed the phone. This particular toy is wise to kids, and is rigged to ring automatically whenever it is closed. Each time it did so, Lucas seemed genuinely surprised and obviously compelled to open and answer the phone. Over and over and over--and suddenly I had this image of my little snuggly baby on the trading floor at Wall Street. (This is enough of a stretch for his father or me that I'm not entirely certain "trading floor" is the correct phrase!) The action, the noise, the numbers--all seemed somehow in his reach in that moment of aggressively putting the phone back to his ear for yet another "sell now!" conversation with his clients--and I realized I really don't know who this child will grow to be at all.

I had a similar moment with Kyra recently--Kyra with her short hair, dirty shirts, and "eager to be a boy" attitude. I was putting her to bed when she began to rap a series of song lyrics I had never heard before. (Again, like my mother, I am barely connected to popular culture, so the most familiar of songs are often unknown to me!) In between verses of this "rap" Kyra described how she and her closest day care friend were one day going to be singing on stage....a far cry from how we typically see her, but suddenly within the reaches of my mind. When I went downstairs to search for the lyrics, I discovered my daughter at day care had learned "Wake Up" by Hilary Duff. The scraped knees, baseball bat and trucks were replaced in my mind by blue eyeshadow, red lipstick and low rise jeans....and the awkward reality of a teenaged girl trying to find her voice in the midst of all the madness around and within her. And again, I realized I don't know who either of my children will grow to be.

I am simply grateful to watch and grow myself, caught up in the surprises of their authenticity....still creating my own.

A bit of a stretch

2006-06-28T21:10:00.000-04:00

Our house has been on the market for six days, and our realtor hasn't even gotten a call. Short of checking on her phone lines every hour or harassing her to tell me if she has statcounter to determine if anyone is viewing the listing, I must sit and impatiently wait. The only actual sign that our house is for sale is hanging out in front with a giant photograph of our realtor. (Does that honestly sell houses? When did real estate become akin to the Miss America pageant?) This isn't entirely true, though, as the contents of our mailbox seem to indicate an imminent move. Daily we receive postcards from moving companies, mortgage brokers, and competing realtors hoping for a piece of the non-action we are currently experiencing. I'm actually quite fond of our mortgage broker, so I received his postcard today with a smile. When we first bought our home he was relatively patient with my total ignorance of the mortgaging process; he provides door to door service, showing up in our home with only hours notice. I wish, wish, wish he was licensed in Connecticut--but he's not. To remind us of his care and the impending national holiday, however, we received a postcard from him today. Bearing in mind that this is a man I genuinely appreciate, indulge me in a moment here....

The postcard reads: I'm proud to be an American--and I'm equally proud to be your trusted professional. I'd like to wish you a joyous July 4th holiday and extend my continued assistance to you for the future [despite that I'm not licensed where you're moving....]. If you know of anyone who could use my services, please let me know. Much as our freedom adds to the glory of our country, your referrals add to the success of my business.

I don't know about you, but my mind was filled with the image of bewildered Iraqis picking up our "freedom referral plan" postcards just hours before the bombs began. "Consider democracy. I tried it and closed the deal in just days! Call G.W. for details....he's waiting to hear from you!"

I need more sleep....and a buyer....and only one house and job on my mind! Soon enough, I hope.

Transition....

2006-06-22T22:00:00.000-04:00

My dear boy, so nearly two years old, you are my gift each and every day. Each year around yours or Kyra's birthdays, I drag down your bins of baby clothes--those few special outfits I saved for this annual birthday ritual. One by one I lift out the hospital shirt with the "paw protectors," the blue and yellow duckie outfit (then so huge!) we dressed you in for your official hospital photo, and the soft bathrobe I just had to buy only days before you arrived. Though you are too young to fully appreciate this time together, I indulge myself in marveling at how you've grown and changed. I hold the shirts up at the shoulders, press them against your chest, all the while talking about how I simply cannot believe you were once so small....how it does not seem possible you were inside of me, swimming your way around, then outside of me, swimming your way around these tiny, tiny clothes.

Your birthday this year is surrounded on all sides by change--a new job for Mommy, the only house you've ever known officially on the market on your birthday (I'm already feeling this is good luck....), and moving boxes beginning to accumulate in the garage. In the madness of these moments, we neglected to bring the requisite "school snack" to day care for your birthday. No matter. We'll celebrate with your friends next week. For your actual birthday, we're visiting Edaville for their "Day Out with Thomas." Tonight Daddy and I carried your new-to-us train table in from the garage, and a nice layout is already set up, waiting for you like Christmas. The transportation theme was hardly intentional, but it seems a fit given how our lives are presently on the move.

Your birth was so unique and different from Kyra's. My water broke during the night, and we casually showered, ate crispy English muffins for breakfast, waited for Auntie's arrival and chatted all the way to the hospital, ecstatic that we would return home with a beautiful baby. (The same drive when Kyra was born was a bit more precarious, with Daddy wondering if she would be born in the half mile to the hospital....) The story of your actual birth has many twists and turns, moments of absolute calm and focus, and moments of concern when it appeared my body was not working on the doctor's clock (hmmmm....seems like it was working just fine with yours....). On the whole, I was the picture of calm, employing all the hypnobirthing techniques we had worked on for months prior to your arrival. After hours of this focus, however, I learned I was only 6 centimeters dilated, when I imagined my body to be closer to 9 centimeters. Panic set in and I began frantically demanding an epidural, announcing to all in the room that the drug-free plan was off! I turned to your father, knowing he was the one person in the room unlikely to refuse me, and pleaded for the anesthesiologist. As the nurses suggested a shot and our doula calmly tried to get me back on track, I rose to go to the bathroom, insistent that an epidural greet me upon my return. Those few moments in the bathroom were terrifying--unexpected blood, waves of contractions bringing me to the brink of my physical capacity to stay in the moment, and my sudden announcement to Matt that I was pushing....then....there....for real.... Transition--the most perplexing stage of all of labor and delivery for me. So near to the goal, but with the highest hills yet to climb. When we returned to the bed, a skeptical nurse checked my cervix once again and delightedly called for the doctor--I had dilated four centimeters in ten minutes. We were going to have a baby. The next few minutes are a blur of medical staff suiting up, our doula and Matt grabbing hold of my legs, and my very vocal wails as I pushed as though I would turn myself inside out. Gone were the blissful moments of visualizing my mother's arms passing your body through me into my arms. Gone was Matt's calm voice reminding me to "release." In place of these earlier clips from the hypnobirthing highlights reel was a fearful, powerful woman roaring her way to a happy, happy arrival. You.

On every one of your birthdays I consider these memories a gift, but this year they were particularly apt. I had a few moments of panic earlier today after considering too closely all the possible glitches in the changes we've undertaken. After the happy calm of the past few days, I hit transition and panicked. No other way to describe it.... Remembering your arrival to my arms brought just the message I needed to hear--we have an incredible, intense stretch ahead of us. At moments it will seem we have no more to give--we will want only to rest. But we will press on, and exceptional, life-defining moments await at the end of our efforts. If our next home brings us even a portion of the pleasure we receive in loving you each and every day, this will be the best decision we've ever made.

You are loved. Absolutely. Completely. Without reservation. Without hesitation. A love beyond all measure.... Happy birthday sweet boy.

Five days for fathers....

2006-06-17T22:10:00.000-04:00

When Cape Buffalo Kara came up for air following her school's commencement, she once again tapped her Internet friends, suggesting we honor fathers as we honored mothers in May. Given that June had fallen quickly upon many of us, the two week mother spread was quickly transformed into "five days for fathers." Our lives being in transition as they are, my five days have dwindled to, well, none! But it feels very appropriate that I honor my father on THE day, as I want to write about the special way that he is honoring another father this year on Father's Day.

Whether a God-given gift, a consequence of a life with some significant losses, an occupational hazard (He is a life-long pastor, and carries this persona with him whether actively serving a church or not.), or some rich combination of all of these, my father is incredibly empathic to people who have experienced loss. When other people flee with fear and discomfort in the face of tragedy and grief, my father rushes in. He somehow always seems to find words that soothe, and it is rare that I meet someone who has known my dad without their mentioning some particularly painful time in life when he was present with him or her.

I received an email message this week from my dad sharing that a very young father who lived down the block died suddenly, without warning. The family numbly set about the tasks of planning for a memorial, and when my father visited with them after he heard the news, they asked if he might consider giving up his Father's Day to preside over the funeral. They needn't have asked--I'm certain my dad's mind was made up before the words were even spoken. He is simply that generous. Materially, he has little, and while he gives away most everything he has, it is this gift of presence--this spiritual gift--that matters most to people.

It is a slightly different manifestation of the same gift I received on afternoons after school when we squared off over a chess board, or when he helped me warm my arm for my very brief softball career. While I obviously learned the importance of being present from those moments when he was for me, I am particularly proud of all I learned from watching from afar as he was present for others. I look at my sister and me--our friendships, our commitments, our passion for justice, and our concern for others, particularly in those moments when others might shy away--and I know we gleaned this from our father. We are good people....on our best of days, I feel we are exceptional people....and I know there was a powerful combination of good that emerged from our parents' partnership in raising us. I have had many occasions in writing this blog to express thanks to my mother. How important it is to have this occasion to say thank you to my father.

We love you. Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Ch-ch-ch-changes!

2006-06-15T23:12:00.000-04:00

Though the fat lady has yet to sing (more on this in a moment), we are feeling highly optimistic about a possible move to Connecticut. The job offer was made in person today (and the woo-ing was ample and wonderful!), the inevitable salary negotiations are underway, and Matt and I are both feeling as though this move has tremendous potential for our family. The only significant moment of pause for me? Logging onto the CT Registry of Motor Vehicles webpage, fearing this might be one of those states....the states that require you to list your weight on your license. I have always vowed not to live in one of those. Though I don't have a final answer on the question, and I can't imagine I would share with the university president that this was my reason for withdrawing, the signs are good that this fat lady will not need to sing! Hooray!

Cruising at the drive-in

2006-06-10T21:03:00.000-04:00

My first visit to a drive-in movie theatre was in rural New Hampshire....my sister and I heard on the radio that "The Muppet Movie" was playing near to my grandparents' summer cottage, and we somehow managed to convince my parents to celebrate their anniversary by taking us. Though I have no memories of the actual movie, I do remember the after-effects. I was enthralled enough with the options at the snack bar to eat myself into a night of throwing up in the bathroom. That aspect of the experience I would gladly forget; of course it is the one thing I remember! I'm certain I visited drive-in theatres after this first notorious trip, but again, I can't remember a single one. There's a theatre 30-40 minutes from us in Rhode Island, and Matt and I vow every summer to go; every fall we add it back to our "things to do next summer" list.

While exploring the possibility of purchasing a projector and screen, Matt had the fortune of "inheriting" a projector about to be thrown out by the Media Services department at the college where we work. Though poor in daylight (okay....poor in anything but pitch darkness), we settled right into life with a big screen. We are movie watchers, rather than TV; Matt takes managing his Netflix queue as seriously as most take on-line banking. (We would do well to take that a bit more seriously some months....) Many evenings find us snuggling close on the reclining love seat watching the latest recommendation based on a history of obscure independent films. Last night was no exception (and we're all set up for tonight, too!), and when Matt returned from a late night "must have Frostys from Wendys" run, he said, "You know I've thought this before, but being out tonight just proves it--we're nothing more than a drive-in." Our family room has large windows the width of our projection screen, and the sheer curtains apparently ensure our neighbors have full view of the evening's selection. Given that last night we were watching an episode from the final season of Queer as Folk, the highly-graphic and equally controversial program from Showtime, our eighty-year old neighbor, Margaret, must have gotten quite an eyeful.

Ah, life at the drive-in....

Sympathy cards

2006-06-08T22:51:00.000-04:00

A giant box arrived on my front porch a couple of months ago, one of several due to be sent. My father is moving from the modest home he has lived in for more than a decade, and he will have space for little in his next place. What he had kept of my mother’s life and death will now be ours—ours being my sister and me. This particular installment of “This Was Her Life”? Piles of sympathy cards sent upon her illness and death…

My mother and father held occupations—teacher and pastor, respectively—that put them in the public eye in a (quite literally) contained community. Our home was an island, and serving in any sort of public capacity was cause for knowing and being known. News of my mother’s sudden diagnosis with pancreatic cancer spread and metastasized as rapidly as the unstoppable tumor within her. Within days it seemed everyone in our island community and the towns we had previously called home had somehow heard. My young (45), lively, energetic mother was dying, and soon. Florists worked overtime delivering displays that covered any clear surface. Our post office box was crammed daily with cards and letters—some simply signed, and others pages long as the writer attempted “aloud” to make sense of what simply had no sense.

Years ago I read every one of those cards and letters, secretly hoarding those which spoke most deeply to me. (Tonight I read every one of them once again.) When the box arrived recently, it was not so much the well-meaning and sympathetic words that most affected me as I skimmed through, though there were rare exceptions to this. What I somehow wanted to capture for my own memory and for future stories to my children was the sheer volume of all those cards and letters, pouring out of the giant box. It’s irrelevant, I know. To tell Kyra and Lucas that thousands of words were exchanged in their grandmother’s honor—to somehow weigh her worth in the notice given her illness and death—would in no way capture her significance to me. While it is a mark of her life that her loss was seen as significant to so many, the loss would have been no less sharp and complete if she had only been known and loved by me. And for the thousands of words written to her and to us, I have written thousands upon thousands more, sending them off in my heart as the shape of my memories, my grief and my fears came to life on paper. While the notes and cards of remembrance slowed gradually to a trickle and now are more personally exchanged between our immediate family on those resonant anniversary days, my letters to her go on and on and on….I still have so much to say.

June, a month for celebrating fabulous fathers!

2006-06-04T14:32:00.000-04:00

I had the pleasure of printing photos for Friday's scrapbooking extravaganza, and pouring over old pictures has me feeling very nostalgic for the early days of being a tiny little family of three. We're only a little family of four now, but that fourth member came with a lot of spunk! Back in the day, being new parents together was a wonderful opportunity to get to know Kyra, of course, but also to get to know Matt in very new ways. While I could write page upon page of his devotion to his children, the depth of his love for them, and the beauty of standing silently in the kitchen watching as he rolls around on the family room floor with them, I'll let a picture speak for me. This is the incredible man I get to see every single day. I'm blessed.

Descended from the apes....

2006-06-02T09:20:00.000-04:00

In this blast from the past, Kyra and Lucas both flash the "inherited from Daddy" nostrils as further proof of the truth of evolution....

Overlooking the obvious

2006-05-31T15:05:00.000-04:00

From our house to Matt's parents' house (and vice versa), "exit 9" outside of Albany is almost always the perfect destination for meals, clean bathrooms, and a much-needed stretch. The Cracker Barrel store and restaurant hosts a favorite set of bathrooms--and their raspberry iced tea is yummy, too. On the way to Matt's parents' home, the restaurant restroom became the site of a "first" for Lucas--peeing on a public potty! Hooray! It was in this same restroom on our way home that I had what I'm certain was not a first or a last for me--the "keep it simple/don't overlook the obvious" answer to a child's very innocent question.

As Kyra and I were leaving to return to our table, we held the restroom door for a group of women--three seemingly together who were African-American, and two seemingly together who might have been Indian. In that a-little-louder-than-normal child's voice, Kyra asked, "Why are all the brown people going to the bathroom?" In the space following her question, my mind raced through a million thoughts. I work predominantly with people of color, and as someone white who was relatively oblivious to my own color for many years of my life, I long ago made a promise to myself that my children would be raised to be color conscious. The old myth of walking through the world color blind does not fit the realities of a world where white continues to extend remarkable unearned privileges. Though my work is in multiculturalism, predominantly around issues of race, I still had that pause. I didn't want to shame my child for her question and observation; I didn't know if the women had heard and whether or not they were comfortable or uncomfortable with her remark. I didn't want to emphasize color in my response--how could I, to a four year old? "Well, Kyra, why is it you didn't comment earlier when a group of white people passed us to go to the cash register?" My sorely inadequate response? "Maybe they are a family and decided to go to the bathroom together." Though it seemed quite obvious that we passed two distinct groups of women, I still choked a bit on my answer, eager to not let my pause bring shame or self-consciousness to Kyra. When I shared the incident with Matt later that evening, he suggested I should have said that if I were a person of color, I, too, would want someone to have my back in the restroom of such a white establishment!

The obvious answer I so clearly overlooked didn't emerge until a day later. What I wish I had said???

"Because they must have to go to the bathroom."

Fresh Air....priceless

2006-05-30T23:33:00.000-04:00

We spent the long weekend in central New York, visiting Matt's parents and enjoying some of our favorite fresh air spots. Often we drive at night so the kids will sleep in the car, and when we step out of the car, legs aching for a stretch, we gasp at the stars. Living downtown in a cityish suburb, Matt and I once drove miles to find a dark enough location to watch a meteorite display. Our kids learn about stars from our college's observatory and planetarium, not from the experience of looking up in their backyard. This trip, we gasped upon arrival because the air smelled so fresh. There was a drizzle, drawing up into the air the scent of newly-mown grass....heaven. Between the bright sun, the acres of room to roam and run, and a stimulating schedule of "down home" events (car show, pig roast and canoe regatta!), Lucas slept straight through the night two nights in a row. I'm not certain this has ever happened. Our home has its charms, but the smoke and soot-filled air of our neighborhood suffers greatly after the three day comparison we've returned from. Oh, how I wish I could bring home that air....

All that there is....

2006-05-25T16:09:00.000-04:00

I've been having one of those days. It rings for me of Frances McDermond's moment in Friends with Money when she asks, "What if this is all there is?" After months of job prospecting, balancing hopes for a new future with reasonable satisfaction with our current reality, I'm simply feeling tired of the quest...and as has been the case throughout my life, concerned I will never find "it"--that elusive "it" that is my calling, my destiny, my purpose. And yet, even as I say, "What if this is all there is?" I realize the answer is a certain "YES!" Isn't every moment really all there is? So what of today's "all" has given me joy, contentment, or peace?

*Lucas's toddler room classmate Jack is a baseball fanatic. Not yet two, he can already swing a plastic bat and connect with a wiffleball pitched in his direction. He fakes a pitch, runs from corner to corner in the outdoor playspace, and slides "safe" onto his right knee. Over and over and over--it is priceless. The teachers were commenting they should get his autograph now; he will certainly find his way to the major leagues.

*Two weeks ago while grocery shopping I came up $6 short in my need to spend $100 in order to use my $10 off coupon. I raced to the nearest display, grabbing six boxes of "buy one, get one free" cereals. I didn't see at the time the boxes contained iTunes coupons. Lucky Charms happily consumed, I "cashed in" my first two coupons on Tuesday night. One was worth not only the original song, but a five song bonus as well. That $6 gap has paid me many times over....and in music--what could be better?

*Matt and I went to our favorite local Mexican restaurant for lunch. One lunch-sized enchilada, taco, rice, chips and salsa later, I was feeling lucky indeed that this needs-to-talk-it-all-through extravert found the ideal happy-to-just-listen-and-take-it-all-in partner. Our differences are not without challenges, but the benefits are plentiful. And the best part of it? He has heard it all before, and he listens as though it is fresh and new. What a gift....

*When our church's youth minister (originally from South Africa) had the fortune of meeting another South African at a local summer camp, our church became the delighted recipient of her thoughtful, articulate, talented now-husband. I have loved his voice since we both first joined the choir, and I recently proposed we together sing a duet. Last night was our first opportunity to practice together, and it was such fun--our voices have a great blend, comparable ranges, and the style of the song I chose was just right. While Matt is an exceptional partner, he is not an exceptional singing partner, so I'm delighted to have found someone to indulge my wish for duets!

When all else fails, I can be grateful for the air I breathe, the flowers that bloom, the boogie-laden smooches which will greet me at day care....even my very capacity to feel and express gratitude.

Is this all there is? Of course it is.

Huh?

2006-05-24T23:01:00.000-04:00

While driving home from day care/work this evening, I began preparing Kyra and Lucas for their evening tomorrow. We'll be visiting the family resource center, a phenomenal local service offering play groups, parenting workshops, visits from parent educators, developmental screenings and more. Matt and I are attending a session called "Growing a Girl!" while Kyra and Lucas play in the playgroup area. Kyra has envied the fact that Lucas still occasionally attends playgroups, despite that she has aged out of many of these programs. I was emphasizing the play opportunity to her, but she was clearly more interested in the topic of our workshop. Without knowing exactly how to describe it--when in fact I know little more than the title!--I simply said, "It's a lesson about how to raise great girls, and we certainly have a great girl to raise!" Kyra's response?

"Are you going to sell me?"

I don't know if we've been talking about raising livestock for food, raising the cost of gas to gouge out our wallets or wanting more of a raise in our paycheck, but clearly there has been a raise/sale link for her. Nope, my girl, you are definitely a keeper!

All the blog entries I am not taking time to write!

2006-05-22T13:43:00.000-04:00

It was one of those weekends--event after event, insight after insight. There were so many potential blog entries, I literally felt overloaded. As always when this is the case, I wrote nothing! So, here is just a sample list of what I could have written about, but did not....keeps you guessing, wanting for more, at least!

*Commencement at the college on Saturday--and in particular, a special ceremony held for a cohort group of students selected to enter and move through the college experience together. I was struck by the magnification of their contributions and their learning from college, and curious about how we can better provide this to all our students and, in fact, all people.

*Birthday celebration for my friend, Karen--in the process of divorcing, Karen has again proven herself a survivor. She threw herself a 30th birthday party, and we were the delighted beneficiaries of a few hours with eight terribly interesting and different women. Further insight--her soon-to-be ex-husband has done her wrong in ways few women come up for air from, and yet she seemingly manages with some health and humor. In one of those rare moments when we let ourselves stumble into talking about him and what he deserves for how he behaved, I realized he's already gotten what he deserves--he has already lost the very best thing he was ever going to find in life. This will be a forever wound for him. May her wounds heal completely, and in time may we be celebrating under even better circumstances!

*The meaning and power of prayer--whether it is a shift within or the actual intervention of God, I am astounded at how often my requests are met. I have been very casually praying about my desire to feel more appreciative of my kids and more present with them, and have been quite surprised as situations that only days ago were likely the end of my patience, tolerance or good will seem to be quite manageable, and even humorous at times! While I believe in the presence of God, I know not everyone does--perhaps there is simply power for us all in voicing aloud the ways in which we want to shift and change.

*Sacrificial moms--just a few days ago a good friend vocalized her plan for getting her body, her mind and her life back in order. The only problem? This plan is on hold until her youngest child is in preschool, one year away. I thought about Flylady, to whom I am eternally grateful, and her belief in starting where we are, never feeling behind, and doing what we can in the very small increments of time that life provides us. I thought about my wish for all parents, but moms in particular, to feel somehow whole and self-focused despite or perhaps even because of the presence of children. And this non-blog entry would also have talked extensively about a workshop I hosted last week with a speaker on the care parents need to give themselves. But, since I'm not writing about anything today....

*Rent, the show, the movie, the documentary detailing how it all came to be--with three shows in two cities under our belt, Matt and I can hardly be called "Rentheads," but we do know every single word from the soundtrack and consider ourselves to be fans of significance. Remembering via the documentary the tremendous promise, tragedy and full circle nature of the show and its creator Jonathan Larson has filled my mind with longing, dreams and a sense that I need to begin to fulfill those now!

My first longing? A NAP--allergies have kicked in and I'm feeling one step below lousy. Lori McKenna is playing at Brennan's Grille tonight, however, and we have tickets. I suspect I will be feeling terrific by then!

'Twas the day after "yes" day....

2006-05-19T09:25:00.000-04:00

Well, technically yesterday wasn't a true yes day, but we're giving ourselves partial credit. What's a yes day, you ask? Years ago, before baby Lucas entered our world, we had "one of those mornings." Kyra was pleading to stay home from day care, Matt jokingly suggested he could be "sick" for the day, and within moments, we called to say we would all be home for the day. We spontaneously dubbed the moment "yes" day and determined to spend our time revisiting all the treats, destinations and indulgences we typically say "no" to on a day to day basis. The highlights from that first yes day? Kyra drank her first Kiddie Size Fruit Coolatta from Dunkin' Donuts (a ritual she associates with all "yes" days since), and she was able to visit a local craft store that always used to put giant stuffed animals outside their door as a lure for young children. We had driven past those stuffed animals for months, and Kyra requested often to stop and give them a pat. The excuses were typical--we're late to work, we're hungry for dinner and want to get home--and the answer previously had always been "no." We stopped, hopped out of the car, and three minutes after greeting the animals, Kyra was done--satisfied--immensely happy. It had been so incredibly simple. The lesson for us? Saying no is a habit, and one that gives us power on days when we're feeling particularly powerless in the face of it all. Saying yes, on the other hand, is just as simple, and gives us a much more authentic sense of power....and goodness, too! And so the yes days continue. Though we weren't able to step out of work/day care yesterday, we had contemplated it, and so we still treated ourselves to some "yes" responses along the way. A delicious sandwich at Panera Bread for lunch....time in the sandbox and on bikes before dinner....an extra story in the evening. Again, extravagence is low, but pleasure is high. What can you say "Yes" to today? We're heading to the mall for some rainy day play time. I might even say "YES" to the kids' requests for DONUTS!

From Massachusetts, declaring every day a "YES DAY!!!"

Love Covers a Multitude

2006-05-18T12:03:00.000-04:00

We live only eight miles from the college campus where we work, but we pass ample numbers of Dunkin' Donuts and church bulletin boards on our way. There are those faith communities like ours that use their bulletin boards for facts: "Church Fair, 10am Saturday." There are other communities that use their boards to provoke, to reach out, to draw in. Though Matt regularly asks, "Do they honestly get anyone through the door because a free pass to heaven was advertised outside?" something about the process seems to be satisfactory or fun for them. And hey, we certainly comment often enough on the clichéd messages they post.

In honor of Mother's Day, I suspect, one such bulletin board recently boasted, "Love Covers a Multitude." The words struck me--in part, the phrase sounded incomplete (a multitude of what??? sin??? is that the original phrase?); in part, the phrase struck true somewhere inside me. I felt the truth in motion yesterday when Matt and I both woke tired and, dare I say it? GRUMPY! Our children are in a cycle of very poor sleep, and despite the predictability of their current habits, it just doesn't feel good to go to bed at 12am, wake with Lucas at 2am, settle Kyra in sleeping bags on our floor at 3:30am, wake again with Lucas at 5am, decide to bring him to our bed where we will all wake unhappily at 7am, already about a half hour behind our "what we need to do to get to school/work on time" schedule. Feel free to refer me to Super Nanny or Nanny 911, suggest any number of helpful sleep resources....we know what we can and must do, and we haven't yet mustered the energy or desire to train our kids back to full nights of sleep. We are in coping mode, at least until commencement.

Anyway, I digress....Matt and I are both a bit on the selfish side, by nature, and we are also prone to being a bit negative when we are tired, so these exhausted mornings often leave us grumbling internally and sometimes externally about who got up at what times during the night, who is doing more to get the kids ready and moving, who should stop reading the cereal box and stand up to finish the lunches, who is ultimately at fault/to blame for our being late to work yet again....you can imagine the inner dialogue. Yesterday was no exception, and I could actually feel the friction between us, despite that neither of us had exchanged a word about who actually dared to sit down and eat breakfast as opposed to carrying something on the road, or who was taking the time to look up the address for the after-school program when that letter could easily be mailed from work.

After much coaxing and prodding for kids to get shoes on, coats on, teeth brushed, hair brushed, we were finally ready to depart. Loaded down with laptops and lunchboxes, I spontaneously turned toward Matt, said "Good morning," and gave him the kiss we both deserved to start our days. It was an hour and a half later than it should have been given, and prompted a day's worth of discussion with Kyra about the ways in which two consenting adults can kiss versus parent/child kisses or kid to kid kisses, but that brief moment in time did, indeed, cover a multitude. Ah, how little it takes to choose love, but often we overlook the opportunity.

Choose some love today....get some, give some, feel it deep within. Find all that it can cover in your life.

Remembering sunnier days

2006-05-15T21:26:00.000-04:00

Too many consecutive days of indoor play....too much rain washing away flowers and grass seed....too many floods wiping out New England. We are grateful to be in dry shelter, safe from the worst of the storm, and concerned about the many, many people who are trying to save themselves, their homes, and their histories. Soon we know the sun will return (though not soon enough!). In the meantime, we remember what it felt like to be outdoors, hot, and very, very happy!

Where you lead, I will follow

2006-05-12T23:24:00.000-04:00

In the liner notes for Carole King's The Living Room Tour, she describes how originally the song "Where you lead, I will follow" was written for an obviously yet-to-be liberated, pre-feminism woman following her man. After abandoning the song for a stretch because of her decreased connection to its meaning in this context, she was invited to rewrite and perform the song as the theme of Gilmore Girls, celebrating the connection between mothers and daughters. This video clip of Carole singing the updated version is a clear reminder why I list Carole King on the very short list of women whose lives I envy, but doesn't match the version on the album that actually is performed as a duet with her daughter, Louise Goffin.

When my own mother was alive, we rarely sang duets, and we certainly would have lacked the "hip" quality of Carole and Louise were we even to have attempted this song. Its meaning wouldn't have fit us then either. I was independent, certain to invest my life in a wider circle of friends and acquaintances....the daughter happy to leave home and ensure no one was following from behind. When my mom died only a month after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, I was 20 years old--a girl, in my mind, who had simply left college for the weekend because her mom was sick and heading in for surgery. I wasn't at that moment in a relationship, I had no vision for my future, and it bothered me immensely to think I was going to (hopefully) graduate from college in a year and from that point forward my mother wouldn't have any idea where I was.

Though I knew rationally this wasn't the case, I believed in some magical fantasy world my mom could get in touch with me--she should "know" where I am at all times. When I returned to college for my senior year, I had powerful moments of realizing she might indeed know where I am. One night I returned to my room feeling sad and alone and wanting space, only to discover a crowd of had-been-friends (I had changed too much to really be part of any of my old crowds.) boisterously celebrating and spilling from room to room throughout our house. I retreated to the shower, sensing this was the only place I might truly be alone, and then locked myself inside my room, ensuring I locked the rest of the crowd out. I listened to music, wrote in my journal, and reflected on a conversation with my friend, Amy, whose mom had been sick with cancer longer than any of us cared to remember. She shared with me how she only prayed to God for peace. If she asked for her mom to be well, she was perpetually disappointed; if she asked not to have to go through the suffering any more, she feared her mom would die. Realizing she had no control over the circumstances of her mom's sickness, she could only ask God to somehow heal the unrest and uncertainty that clung tightly inside of her. Feeling just desperate enough to stop asking for my mother back (futile, but I did it nevertheless....), I said only four words as I lay aching in the dark: "God, give me peace."

Hours later I awoke from a dream and saw a grayish figure of my mom looking much as she would have when she was the mother of two very young daughters. The short, salt and pepper hair with which she had died was suddenly long and pure black, lifted from her face with a wide-band headband. I squinted my eyes, uncertain if I was still somewhere in a dream, but the harder I focused on her image, the more distant and blurry it became. If I simply remained still, accepting her presence as real, she was there. Though I didn't hear the words aloud, I received a message: "I will watch over you and your children always." Though I was that same 20 year old girl--grown seemingly years older in a few months time--and had no children or thought of them, I took the words as a gift. They continue to be in so many ways.

While I can count on one hand actual appearances of my mom after her death, the surprising moments of "coincidence" wherein I discover I am following in her footsteps are too numerous to count. Let me share just a few.... After leaving the safe confines of my college and moving our family belongings from the house where she had died, I was set adrift from my mother's knowledge of me. How would she reach me if she needed me? How would she even know where I was? I selected a graduate school that offered a few fabulous benefits--a program I loved, a tuition-granting assistantship, and proximity to the man I was certain I would spend my life with (and for once, I was right!). Though I knew in the back of my mind this university was in the city where my mother was raised, it wasn't a conscious thought for me; I had never known her family to be there, and to my memory had never visited there with her. Imagine my surprise when my father visited my new apartment, exclaiming minutes after his arrival, "Did you know your mom grew up just around the corner from here?" Hmmmm....maybe she could find me.

Two years later it was time for another move. I visited the campus that would become both home and work for Matt and me for the past ten years, certain I had never been there before. But a drive down main street felt oddly familiar. The final summer I had spent with my mother, we had attended a James Taylor concert at an outdoor, ampitheatre-style concert venue. Hoping to avoid the crush of traffic as we departed, we skirted right as the other cars piled up to turn left for the easy entrance to the highway. Where had that right turn taken us? Along a series of roads that ultimately passed the front of that campus....so indeed she might find me once again.

Two years more passed, and tiring of the 24 hour work life that accompanied living on campus, I took a new position at the college and we rented a home just eight miles away. Again, on my dad's first visit, he shared with me that we lived mere blocks from the very first school my mom served as a teacher....and five or so years after that, when we hired a new Administrative Assistant in my office, she discovered one day that she had been a student at this very school in the one and only year my mom taught there. She produced a yearbook and, sure enough, there was beautiful Phyllis. Without intention or knowledge on my part, I seem to keep following her path. She knows where I am; I am certain of it.

Matt and I are once again contemplating a move, hoping there might be a workable offer (or any offer at all!) after a fabulous campus visit yesterday. As I drove home, contemplating all the changes that would accompany this move were it to happen--new job, new state, new home, new community, new schools for the kids (eek--need to move quickly as kindergarten is bearing down on us....), I couldn't help but pause and think of my mom. Never before have I moved with the knowledge of her sojourns years before, so I can't expect I will now, but what if this time there aren't any? What if this is the move that takes me beyond her life, out of her reach?

Perhaps it is now my time to lead, trusting she will follow....

On Motherless Daughters Day and every day, I remember. Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

I am Jennifer, daughter of Phyllis Eileen Cash Sanborn (1947-1993).

The Pain of Perfectionism

2006-05-10T21:31:00.000-04:00

Author and columnist Anna Quindlen describes one of those unforgiveable but inevitable parenting moments when her daughter walked out of her school and shared the news that she had received a 97% on an exam. Her mother's first comment? "What did you get wrong?"

My parents never demanded perfection, thank goodness, but they always challenged my sister and me to "do our best" or "work to our potential." Time and time again we demonstrated that we were capable of perfection--or at least working/learning to the test in order to earn top marks--and gradually it came to feel as though being a lifetime valedictorian was a must, simply because I could. I've had more than my share of momentary knock-downs, instilling a sense of humility and reality. One such moment I get to share often, as it took place during my graduation from college, and I happen to work presently with college students. Throughout college I had held a 3.9 or higher grade point average, the GPA required to graduate Summa Cum Laude. I couldn't have told you what the words meant, but I knew it was what I had to be. Imagine my surprise as I was walking across the graduation platform listening to the words, "Jennifer _______, Magna Cum Laude." I'm amazed the photo doesn't show my jaw on the ground as I'm shaking hands with our college president. I was convinced they had announced it wrong, offended that I wasn't getting my just recognition, until I opened my diploma folder and received one of those oh-so-tacky notes indicating my diploma was being held for new printing with the proper graduation honors and would be sent in the mail. My final GPA, all thanks to a B+ on my senior thesis? 3.895--I had missed my anticipated honors by five thousandsth of a point. And you know what? Not a thing changed. I was still me, I was still loved by the same people, my graduate school acceptance wasn't rescinded, and so on. I was glad I had missed it by such a miniscule, ridiculous amount, as it drove the point home--landing on either side of that 3.9 mark was meaningless. What had I actually LEARNED along the way? Hmmmm....much better question.

Perfection in my present life takes different forms. I felt like a very natural mother before becoming pregnant with my second child. I had never raised my voice, I felt creative and stimulated by being with my child, I felt fairly able to balance my part-time work with my full-time mothering. Then, I learned I was pregnant only days after my in-laws were in a near-fatal car accident on their way to visit us. My mother-in-law lived in our home for seven weeks while my father-in-law was hospitalized in various area hospitals. Day after day as I swallowed the continuous bile floating around my motion sick mouth, we were shuttling between home, work, the hospital, and a dreadful sense came over us that our previous parenting confidence was rapidly diminishing. Truth be told, it's been diminishing ever since! No, I have long since let go of parenting perfection. And perfection as a partner? I'm wise enough not to strive for this either. There are too many apologies exchanged in any given week in our house to presume I have such an unrealistic sense of myself or my relationship.

I could actually sometimes argue that perfection has all but been scoured from my soul, but then it rears its ugly head again. In February, soon after starting this blog, I shared that I had been contacted by super-duper university to interview for a high profile position. After a long, long day of interviews I returned home only to burst into tears within minutes of walking through the door. Though every paper aspect of this job was right, the heart aspect was simply not--I was not prepared to make the personal and familial sacrifices required to take it on. Day after day passed and I wasn't contacted, and I became more and more relieved that I was not likely the final candidate for the job. I knew in my gut that it wasn't right, but I was worried that the rightness of how it sounded and looked would be more of a temptation than I could resist.

Any remaining worry was finally put to rest last night when I received an email indicating an internal candidate had been chosen for and had accepted the position. Along with the email came some words of feedback I had requested, as I have an upcoming interview for a similar position with another university. The words of praise were strong and many, and there were only a handful of comments reflecting areas where I was not as strong. Interestingly, all the areas of concern were out of my control--I haven't yet directed my own program/office/center (true--no way to make the case another way), I don't have recent experience at a large, complex institution (true--I've worked at a small liberal arts college for ten years, can't alter how that looks), and so on. To simply recap, I was learning that a job I did not want had been offered to a candidate I had met and really enjoyed, I received heaps of praise on my experiences and how I presented myself, I learned a few key facts that shut me out of the process and knew they were beyond my control, and yet, I still felt discouraged and had a little nagging "What could I have done differently?" thought all evening. Perfectionism--it's ugly and dehumanizing and manages to always keep me from feeling I am simply enough as I am.

What is uglier for me now is seeing the same perfectionism in Kyra at such a young age. She has a voracious appetite for books and letters and words, and we go through reams of paper (environmentalists, forgive us--we attempt to use recycled as often as we can!) with this budding young author/artist. Often she will request that we spell for her words she wants to write and include with her pictures. Recently for teacher appreciation week she was writing the word "TEACHER" and had reached the "R" with ease. For some reason, though, the look of the "R" just set her off. She burst into tears, dragged the marker with a heavy hand across all the letters, ripped the paper and said, "NOW I HAVE TO START ALL OVER!" Neither Matt nor I had seen a thing wrong with the letter. It's as though she has this genetic wiring to expect the impossible of herself and to sometimes give up trying at all when she can't reach her aim. A few nights later she was writing once again and stumbled across a couple of letters. She corrected herself quietly and looked up at me saying, "I didn't get upset at all, Mommy. Look at how nicely I fixed those." Improvement? Maybe. But I suspect she had just shifted her expectations from the perfection of letters to the perfection of pleasing her mother. She knew I was bothered by her earlier reaction, and she was simply trying to meet my expectations.

How on earth can I let my children know they are enough, just as they are, when there is a nagging sense I still carry that I must justify my existence with achievement??? One of those imponderable questions I'll be thinking on for a long, long time....

By the skin of my teeth

2006-05-08T14:40:00.000-04:00

Kyra lost her third tooth last night--this one aided along by a gentle tug from Mommy. I hadn't intended to pull it out, but it was clearly hanging by the slightest of roots and gave way with a minimum of effort. Immediately after she seemed disappointed she hadn't fully pulled it herself. "We did it together, didn't we?" followed by, "Did I really pull it out?" (wish, wish, hope, hope....) Matt had managed to miss both of the first two coming out, so we were delighted to celebrate as a family. Pull out the camera, smiles all around, grab Auntie from the front room so she can see, etc. We need little cause for a party around this house!

I think we do celebrate the loss of her teeth with such enthusiasm because it sets Kyra apart. She is an introverted child, and her reserved personality makes her hesitant to intentionally choose to stand out. And yet, she is human and a child, so she craves attention; if it comes to her in doses she can appreciate, she just laps it up. Because she is the only child in both her schools to have lost teeth, she is very unique in this way and seems to enjoy being the "only one." And so we celebrate--including a special trip to her favorite Dunkin' Donuts this morning. How a lost tooth equates to a donut is beyond me, but she made a strong case and they were already running behind with little time to sit down for breakfast....so a donut it was.

Without initiating extensive conversation because I know this is an act of great controversy (gosh, is it any wonder we can't achieve world peace when we squabble over meaningless choices.....), I will simply share that we have Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy in our lives only as wonderful stories and imagined versions of what is real. It is a choice that feels good for us and works for our family, so no need to worry that my kids are being robbed of their true childhood! Anyway, all this is to say that Kyra makes choices about how the imaginary Tooth Fairy visits. Her vision was that Daddy would come in and take away the tooth and Mommy would come in and leave some money. We hustled her off to bed with promises that indeed we as the Tooth Fairies would visit, and then promptly forgot. Oh, not entirely--it did occur to me at about 10:30pm before I took a dive into blogs and email and all the distractions that the Internet brings. I then strolled up to bed at 11:30pm not even stopping for my customary kiss good night--not even seeing the tooth pillow peeking out at me as a not-so-subtle reminder.

I awoke with a start at 7:30am (the kids have been going to bed late, late, late and actually sleeping in....this could work for me!), ignoring the insistent Lucas next to me seeking a book or toy or parental attention of any sort. "Matt...." I hissed. "Did you put in any money?" Without nearly my level of panic and worry he replied, "No, I thought you came up and did that last night." Kyra is a light sleeper anyway, but she was also due to wake at any moment. I grabbed five quarters off Matt's dresser, ignoring that we typically put a one dollar bill and quarter in there to introduce her to the green stuff, and tiptoed my way across our creaky 1910 floor. I slowly opened the door, reached around the corner, grabbed the pillow and made my exchange. I escaped to the bedroom, dropping the tooth in my jewelry box, and climbed quickly into bed before she could roll over and realize what had just taken place. Within minutes we heard the customary rolls around the bed and the jingling of coins. Though we had nearly forgotten, she clearly had not--that pillow was her first stop. Phew.... Until next time....

Ode to Mud and Baths and Spring's Dirty Pleasures

2006-05-06T14:29:00.000-04:00

We just returned from Ward's Berry Farm, an agricultural paradise offering endless berry fields, a "farm stand" (grown large enough to function as a small grocery store, deli and smoothie shop), old rusty horse-shaped swings with squeaks loud enough to scare off any hungry wildlife visitors, a giant sandbox where both of my kids learned to either take turns or stand their ground depending on the day, and barns full of rabbits, goats, sheep, and cows. It is one of our favorite destinations, particularly this time of year when the baby animals are still small and sucking voraciously for momma's milk. I remember once watching a mother sheep literally kick one of her lambs off her udder; I admired her, as I only wished to have the courage to do the same to my ten month old who was still nursing around the clock! We had been at Ward's only a half hour or so when Lucas took a dive into a deep, thick mud puddle created by the tractor ruts and a recent rain.

In honor of the very dirty kids I just removed from the bathtub, I offer below a piece about an earlier spring mud bath. One of the pleasures of my daytime work has been the creation of a writer's workshop featuring staff and faculty facilitators and a small but talented group of writers who are put through their paces every month or so. The piece below was one of our ten minute pieces--ten open minutes to write on whatever prompt the facilitator presents. In mid-March we were asked to write about our most vivid recent memory. Here's what I shared:

The warm "spring will arrive" day beckoned to Lucas and Kyra, and they pleaded with me to go outdoors. The sprawling grassy yard and surrounding hay fields at Grandma and Grandpa's house were calling. From the bay window above the always-filled sink I could see the birds on the rows of feeders springing up and down from the red maple and the free-standing clothes line in the back yard. A woodpecker rattled away on the trunk of the maple as a brilliant red cardinal swooped in to the feeder.

We dressed for the mud--boots, winter coats, hats and gloves--and trudged down the splintering wood steps toward the shed out back. Our feet were swallowed up as we walked in the reddish-brown mud hidden beneath a surface of brilliant green--early grass. I was leading the kids toward the pond but they were quick to discover the patch of snow protected by the shade of the old shop. Dipping in one toe and then stomping in with the next, Kyra shrieked with delight at the splash as her foot thrust the snow into the puddle just below. Looking up for permission, she searched visually for my approval. No question was asked, however, so no answer was given. I was waiting to see how quickly the delight would fade.

Lucas came running around the lean-to-like back corner of the shop where Grandpa keeps his fishing boat, and he marched into his sister's discovered puddle without hesitation. The dirty brown water flew through the air with his insistent marching in his now soaked and heavy purple boots. I called out warnings about an impending bath, all the while trying to sell them on the wonders of the awaiting pond. I turned and walked, hopeful they would follow but certain they would not. With a sudden trip, Lucas was kneeling in the muck-filled water, cold and growing ever colder as the slushy water quickly dampened his pants. The shrieks of laughter turned quickly to angry cries of surprise and betrayal. It was time to draw that bath.

Monsters on my mind

2006-05-04T10:15:00.000-04:00

Kyra has been waking during the night, first coming into our room to join us in our seemingly giant king-sized bed, and now, at our insistence, to sleep in her puffy cloud sleeping bag on our floor. Despite the warmth and size of our bed, it already feels crowded with two large adults, the now-grown-to-two collection of body pillows that began when I was pregnant, and the occasional arrival of Lucas during the night as well. Though we previously acquiesced to Kyra's room anxieties by providing both a CD (Mommy singing!) and the closet light all through the night for comfort, her worry about "monsters" seems only to grow. I'm not entirely certain what to credit or blame--the likely culprit is "Monsters, Inc. on Ice," a spontaneous trip provided by a day care teacher who happened to have some extra tickets. The show was months ago, though, and didn't seem to bother Kyra after we initially saw it. The monster worry is in full swing, though.

It begins with the bedtime routine. After bath, pjs, teeth brushed, hair brushed and occasionally chap stick and lotion, Kyra picks out her clothes, selects some stories and climbs into bed as we turn out the overhead light and switch to the more subtle and shaded light in her headboard shelves. With stories and prayers completed, we turn off the headboard light and lie in the dark together--if you can call it that, with the cracks of light from folding closet doors illuminating much of the room. We typically stay for two songs on the CD, decide whether or not to give in to the request for a bonus song, and slowly extricate ourselves from the room with a backrub, a return for an extra hug and kiss, or, on difficult nights, a stormy departure in which we insist we have already stayed long enough! (I should point out that "we" merely means Matt and I take turns--it is rare that we are both with either of the kids together at bedtime. We usually split up, or we are on our own while the other person is on the requisite "night out" that week or working.) When the monster fears kick in, Kyra clings to me, arms wrapped tightly around my neck, begging to sleep in our room because, "I'm afraid of my room. I'm afraid of the monsters." In theory with calm and reassuarance, in actuality with annoyance and frustration, I remind Kyra that she is very creative with a very, very active imagination, and that this gives her the power to believe in things that aren't real. "There aren't monsters, honey, " I tell her, while my own worrisome mind scrolls through large color images of the three registered sex offenders near our street or licks of flame slowly devouring our home, drawing ever more near to Kyra's room where I have expressly forbidden her to leave "unless it's an emergency." Will she remember fire is an emergency? Will she be afraid to come in?

My words tell her monsters aren't real, but what I really mean is that her monsters aren't real. The ones I imagine--the monster of fear that lives within my daughter (likely inherited from her worry-filled momma or auntie), the predatorial monsters that lurk on our streets, the family history of sexual inappropriateness that sometimes positions the most dangerous characters in our memories or even as occasional visitors to our home--these monsters feel very real indeed. So I tuck her in with reassurances that feel like half-truths, uncertain whether I am more guilty about being less than honest or about unconsciously transferring to her this sense that life is something to approach with caution and apprehension rather than abandon and glee.

Last night Kyra appeared on my side of the bed at 2am, stage-whispering stories of a picture in her room that was talking to her. I tucked her into her sleeping bag, deciding wisely to not mention that she will have no television or videos until she again sleeps in her room all night (our current "logical consequence" to keep the imagination at least turned down if not turned off at night), and wondered about this supposed picture. Her story by morning remained the same, and at Matt's prompting, she even drew for us the picture that was to have floated in the air of her room as the four colorful subjects spoke noisily to one another and to her. I briefly thought about describing the few times I have had the privilege of witnessing visually the spirit of my mother, but wasn't certain these visitors to her room felt friendly in the way that my mother was in my encounters. I wasn't feeling certain of much of anything at all.

Monsters are definitely on our minds....

And the tributes continue....

2006-05-03T14:46:00.000-04:00

Today, check out my friend Kristen and her brother bantering playfully and lovingly about their mom at Home on the Fringe.

Their post reminds me of a conversation I had with Matt the other night. After a particularly tough round with Kyra at dinner and bedtime I said sarcastically to Matt, "Let's hope I die while my children still like me." (I was amazed at Kyra's loving resilience yet again--how quickly she returns to affection after being seriously angry with me.) Matt's response? "You'd better get working on that. You're running out of time."

Ah, mothering is the hardest and best role of my life....

Afternoon edit: More phenomenal tributes to phenomenal women at Mr. Big Dubya and Cheeky's Hideaway. Enjoy!

May is for Mothers

2006-05-02T09:32:00.000-04:00

With my thanks to Kara at Cape Buffalo, I'm participating in a monthlong blogfest honoring all those who mother. I will post links to all of the phenomenal tributes I manage to find and get my hands on. Today, treat yourself to Misfit Hausfrau and bring along a tissue. The images and words of her "Mom" post are powerful and heartfelt.

I have had the fortune of writing about and to my mom for many years--13 to be exact. After her death in 1993, I began a project writing letters--some private, some shared--that either speak to her or about her. Inspired by Misfit Hausfrau's garden images and a fresh shower of rain currently dousing our newly planted grass seed, I offer this recent letter about spring flowers.

Dear Mom,

We planted bulbs last fall, a long-considered project but one we never managed to make the time for. I would look with envy at the neighbors’ yards in springtime as spotty patches of green would appear, working their way toward the sun, blossoms closed tight one morning and the next in colorful bloom. To plant in the fall, the end result always seemed too distant. To plant in the spring, the time always seemed to have passed. And of course my perfectionism would get in the way—if I don’t have the whole yard planned, flower by flower, why bother to plant at all? Then, there was the uncertainty of it all. Each fall we would return to work at the college, wondering yet again if we were in the right place, serving our purpose, engaging in meaningful work. What if we moved from the house and never saw the bulbs blossom at all?

This fall, however, was different. We were getting a little bit of sleep (something new since Lucas’s arrival, as you know!), and we happened to be in the Home Depot on a night in late fall when they were practically giving bulbs away in thanks for our removing them from the store. We planted late, late one night under cover of darkness (so much for perfection!) as frost and Thanksgiving both seemed to threaten their arrival. And the uncertainty? Well, our lives are no less stable. We knew we might be too late or never see the results of our late night escapade, but we decided to hope for the best and await some spring surprises.

Those surprises are appearing, day after day. First to arrive were the daffodil stems, still tightly closed leaves around the yellow flowers due soon. Some tiger-striped crocuses were peeping up as we drove home from nursery school on Monday. What will I see today as I round the corner onto our street?

The earth comes to life with such ease and grace, year after year after year. As Kyra and Lucas run and toddle to the front lawn each day to see the minute changes, I realize this is a lesson about far more than some simple flowers. They are learning the truth of life—the cycles of birth, growth, death, decay, and rebirth. I wrote in my journal when you were dying that I didn’t know whether to dance in delight or stomp on the flowers bursting forth from our lawn as you lay dying inside the house. The force of life is relentless. We resist futilely, or we let the sheer power, uncertainty and beauty of it all wash over us. This year, I am letting the waters flow….

Jennifer

Riding the April Wave

2006-04-27T10:46:00.000-04:00

Working at a college or university in September is demanding; working at a college or university in April is out of control. Every student, staff or faculty member with any remaining budgetary dollars hosts a significant speaker, complete with the requisite pre-talk dinner, post-talk reception, and ample cheesecake and coffee to go along. Despite lots of cries about the early run-down of most of the campus-wide funding sources, April is keeping true to its reputation. It is the cruelest month.

In the midst of the intellectual marathon at work, we went once again to Auntie's house for the Boston Marathon. Though she has been in two different apartments in recent years, both have offered easy walking access to the marathon route. (The first year we went, Kyra had learned to clap just the day before. She was just in time, as true fans take seriously the charge to cheer on the strongholds and the stragglers alike--hours worth of clapping!) After too little sleep of late, I was dragging as I drove up for the marathon. Despite that the kids had been with my sister overnight, I hadn't slept enough (again!), and I found myself grumbling and asking why I really go to the marathon. All I could see was the hassle--the traffic, the closed down streets keeping us locked into place for hours longer than comfortable, the occasional vomiting runner coming a bit too close for my puke phobic self (too close being within a mile or two). At the end of the day, all I could remember was the triumph of watching people stretch themselves to physical, mental and emotional capacity not previously thought possible. It is the perfect space to talk about human diversity with the kids--it's rare to find such a colorful display of diverse national identities, skin colors, and physical abilities. I tear up each year when I see Dick and Rick Hoyt, a father/son pair running now for 25 plus years. When Rick was asked via facilitated communication what he would do if he had the ability to run and walk (he is profoundly disabled), he said that he would push his dad. Mere words cannot capture the emotion of the moment. The roar of applause as Dick comes running through, hours and hours into pushing his child in his wheelchair, is palpable. They are both actively engaged in the competition--the pursuit of the finish line--and every heart surges toward that line with them. (As a side note, the Hoyts also participate in triathlons. Try telling yourself you can't squeeze in that half hour walk when you look at their achievements!)

My sister's latest apartment is near a college, and a mere handful of miles from the finish line. Students in off-campus apartments line the street near her home, and their energy is palpable. (Her previous apartment was about 7 miles further back; the race had a completely different feel from the mid-point.) One brave crowd set large speakers in their open windows and set the CD player to repeat Eye of the Tiger by Survivor....for six hours....with the only interruption being brief forays into "Another One Bites the Dust" and "We are the Champions." You can guess which of those was better received! There was something to the driving Rocky III beat that had runners looking skyward, lifting their arms, pressing on despite the pain of the hills just behind them. I will always feel that beat when I think of this year's marathon run. I loved it--every minute of it. Made me want to run again....sort of....maybe....or at least remember how much I enjoyed when I briefly did so.

Other April ventures? I attended the Power of Dialogue training offered by the Public Conversations Project, and was again reminded why this is an organization I someday hope to work for and with. Their thoughtful, considered approach to crafting dialogues across polarizing differences gave me hope again. Part of the three day training is participation in a simulated dialogue around a constructed case study. This particular case was a church divided over homosexuality, and I had the fortune of playing a character role in the simulation. I have strong personal feelings based on how I identify and my wish for my faith community, and was able to channel some of these feelings to really play my character. Though my role was different enough from my own life to stretch me in new directions, there were some shared core beliefs. I found myself not so much acting, but dwelling within my character, listening with her ears, and speaking so others with very different views might be able to hear her voice. Loved every minute of it. No matter your views, get to know PCP. The exposure is life-changing.

Who said anything about March Madness? Around here it's April, and we're rounding the corner toward the much-desired May. I've been invited by Kara over at Cape Buffalo to participate in a collaborative blogging tribute to mothers and mothering throughout the month of May. Look for more coming soon. I love the ways blogs open new doors, conversations and friendships.

Elton Junior?

2006-04-18T23:00:00.000-04:00

Am I the only one who sees the resemblance between our fabulous rocker and Sir Elton John? LOVE this child!

A lifetime ago

2006-04-17T08:38:00.000-04:00

Our wonderful children stayed with their even-more-wonderful "auntie" last night, and Matt and I had our first night alone in our home in 2-3 years. We had arrived late for our evening Easter dinner and by the time the kids were even close to settling, it was already well into the evening we had imagined for ourselves, but there was still something oddly "light" about walking out to a car without kids and carry-alls. We barely spoke on the ride home--Matt's style, but not typically mine--and I think we were both just stunned by the silence. No "But I'm not tired!" or "Lucas is kicking me!" We returned to the house at around 10:30pm. Did we rush to the movies? Order late-night pizza? Snuggle in alone on the couch? Nope--in part because we're pretty good about doing these when the kids are around. Instead we folded and put away laundry, without "help" and without worry about waking one child or another. There is almost always a half-full basket of laundry in our room, waiting for someone to be awake or out of their room or ready to help. Last night we went to bed with empty laundry baskets and it was pure bliss.

The challenges of being alone? Hearing the rumble of the train in the night without the kids' CDs and noisemakers to drown it out....Waking at all the usual "Lucas is up--can you get him?" times because my body is conditioned for that....and one of the oddest, proving the power of behavioral condition, leaving the gate at the top of our steep staircase unlatched because there was no child here to inadvertently tumble their way into an ER visit. How did we indulge in our morning? We stayed in bed until 7:50am (unheard of!), and again, changed the laundry. Ah....who knew the freedom of movement we've been missing these last five years? The clothes we could have washed and put away!

I'm bound for auntie's house now and looking forward to the smiles, hugs and voices so missing from our house this morning....but I'll take another night like this when I get it!

Promises made real

2006-04-16T08:05:00.000-04:00

Our church published a book of devotionals for Lent; today's Easter Sunday devotional is below. (Matt and I joke that I am now the devotional "closer" for our church as my selection for the Advent book was printed for Christmas Eve and this Lenten piece was chosen for Easter!)

But the angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay." (Matthew 28: 5-6)

In March 1993 we learned without any true anticipation that my mother was sick with pancreatic cancer and dying rapidly. Life changed overnight, in more ways than I could ever recount in a few simple sentences. I withdrew from college to live at home, and the members of my family took turns spending time with my mother, soaking up her presence while she was still with us. We sought her forgiveness for past mistakes, asked for advice for the too-long future we would face without her, and expressed our love for the woman she had become. This time was deeply spiritual, and I expressed to God the full range of emotions I was feeling—the anger, the sense of betrayal, the surprising moments of peace and clarity, and inexplicable gratitude in the midst of agonizing sadness. It seemed fitting that my mother entered the final days of her life on the eve of Palm Sunday, asking us to pray with her, awaiting her own triumphal entry into the heavenly city. She died on Tuesday of Holy Week, and we moved through Maundy Thursday and Good Friday feeling as never before Jesus’ pleas to his friends and to God, and the tremendous grief enveloping Mary, Mary Magdalene and the disciples.

My mother’s memorial service was held the day before Easter, and we were gifted with tremendous music in her honor. She had been a music teacher at the local high school, and the school choirs were joined in performance by a community chorus and soloists. When a dear family friend and renowned Gospel singer filled the crowded church with the strains of “Rise Again,” the sound and message both reverberated through the air:

’Cause I’ll rise again.
Ain’t no power on earth can tie me down.
Yes I’ll rise again.
Death can’t keep me in the ground.

Yes, indeed, he had risen…and so, too, will we. I believed it then, in my moments of greatest loss, and I believe it still today.

God, thank you for the promises made real for us in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus.

Toileting troubles

2006-04-12T10:57:00.000-04:00

Is it our almost two year old with potty paranoia? No, no, no! Quite sadly, it is the almost five year old who has been reasonably happy peeing, pooping and flushing since she was 2 1/2 years old who has now decided she hates toilets. Kyra has had occasional panic about flushing--an overflowing toilet at her day care once set her to avoiding beverages and holding her pee long enough to make any camel mama quite proud (and her human mama quite concerned). She has never been a fan of public toilets and those awful automatic flushers that threaten the too-slow bum with a whirlpool bath. This hasn't been of great concern to me, however, because her father still doesn't use public toilets unless it is absolutely unavoidable. He seems relatively well-adjusted, this fact notwithstanding, so I have simply assumed a mild toilet aversion is genetic to his side of the family. What has been a mild aversion has become quite major, however, with shrieks, tears and cries heard around southeastern Massachusetts as we attempt to simply have Kyra try to pee. She has taken to waking us in the middle of the night when she needs to use the bathroom because "the water level is rising." Prophetic words from Noah, calling all the animals to the ark? Not quite--simply concern that the unflushed pee from one of her parents trying to quietly exit the bathroom without waking two light sleepers will suddenly wash over the side and....what? Wash away the lower part of her body? Slowly burn the skin off the soles of her feet like spilled acid in a lab? Turn her into the potty monster, haunting the dreams of similarly afflicted kids? We have no idea! Matt thought he had cured her of the fear through an evening of strategizing. He splashed some toilet water on the floor (his idea, not mine!) and showed her there was nothing there but water. He helped her to consider where she could climb to if the toilet did overflow--perhaps a stool, or in the tub, or run squealing from the bathroom. Toss a towel down if you're feeling extra brave! Information seems not to have been the cure, however, as the fretful tears continue when we ask the seemingly benign question, "Did you flush?"

My sister tells me that phobias are simply a random receptacle for all your fears, anxieties and worries. I considered this and shared this possibility with Kyra, asking, "Is there something else you are really afraid of? Are you worried about Mommy or Daddy or something scary happening?" Without hesitation she said, "No, I just hate toilets." Hmmm....any suggestions anyone?

When Jesus is your neighbor

2006-04-09T21:00:00.000-04:00

We love our 1910 Victorian home--each room is filled with personality, and there is tremendous potential for the future. Our yard, though very, very small, also reflects the years of work Matt, in particular, has put into it. Living downtown in an up and coming suburban Boston commuter town has its advantages. We can travel on foot to the commuter rail, the YMCA, the local zoo, and a series of parks are in easy walking distance. Given that we are in southeastern Massachusetts, I should also note that we can comfortably walk to three Dunkin' Donuts. City government continues to threaten that new life will come to town, and we are hopeful that if we sit tight, our home will soon be the place to live!

So what's not to like? Why do we wonder some days if we will live in our home for another month, much less another 5-10 years? Our neighborhood.... We have few connections and relationships, and the transient renter population that occupies most of our street doesn't help for commitment to community life. Though our yard is small (1/10 of an acre), it is 1/10 of an acre more than any of the neighboring apartment buildings; kids play regularly on the street, eliciting varied states of annoyance depending on the day/night and the neighbor throwing glares out toward the street corner. Drug sales seem to be down--a plus, given that we were regular callers to the local police department in our first two years in the house. Most troublesome, though? Three known sex offenders live within a half a mile of our home. If you are family and know our address, you can visit this website to get their color photographs. We will soon be posting them for the benefit of babysitters, and perhaps we will again be known to the local 911, though we certainly hope not.... We console ourselves by saying, "Better to know who they are than to live in a supposedly safe cul de sac, unaware of the upper middle class neighbor who is silently molesting the neighborhood children," but it is unnerving to teach your four year old daughter she must ride her bike to the back of the house when person X is walking down the street. (It goes without saying that neither child is ever outdoors on their own; grown-up chaperones are required at every turn!)

We have considered at length what it means to live in this neighborhood, where obviously a larger number of the fringe element of society can find affordable housing. As much as we love being able to live a walkers' life, there are many who must walk of necessity. If you can't afford car or bus transportation, our street is a great place to live. Just over the fence from us is a large apartment building that seems, for the most part, well-maintained, and the building seems to draw friendly, responsible neighbors. The couple with whom we essentially share a yard (both patches of grass are small enough that the fence is a mere formality implying privacy where there is none) have rented this particular apartment for a couple of years. They have two cats and a dog whom our children adore. We appreciate getting pets without the responsibility. One of them has a grandson just a bit older than Lucas, so we occasionally have him over to play when he is visiting. Our relationship is cordial, and though our conversation rarely extends past the weather, I feel as though they look out for us and we for them. Though their space is small, they often host friends seemingly down on their luck. Some days there is a steady stream of new faces stopping in to get under a roof for the night, escape a drunken significant other, or take a hot shower. I get nervous sometimes, knowing both the potential for risk with unknown people just over the chain link fence, and of course I am perpetually uncomfortable with everyone standing outside smoking. (We estimate 90% of our neighbors smoke; this is not an exaggeration. Imagine trying to convince your child that this is not an okay possibility for her future when she is surrounded by the act as normal and prevalent.) Matt and I often wish we could pick our house up from the foundation and drive it to a more predictable, middle class neighborhood; we feel like the cigarettes, the sex offenders and the shifty neighborhood visitors are a potential danger to our kids, and our responsibility, first and foremost, is to keep them safe.

When I separate the question of our young, impressionable children, however, our neighborhood intrigues me. On multiple occasions I have carelessly left the minivan unlocked in the driveway with a portable DVD player sitting just inside. I have sometimes left my keys stuck in the lock when trying to get myself, two snowpants-clad kids and a load of groceries in through the back door. I have even been known to drop my wallet unknowingly just outside the car, only to go out hours later and make the surprise discovery. (I'm knocking on wood as I say this and voicing many a silent prayer....) We have never experienced any sort of break-in or threat, despite that we live in just the sort of neighborhood where this would likely happen. Sure, the drug dealer across the street was stabbed once, but it was far down the street near Dunkin' Donuts #1, and the police have responded quickly on those rare occasions when we have felt the need to call. When I think about where Jesus might live if he came to our town tomorrow, I'm quite certain he would stop first at our neighbors just over the fence. While Matt and I like to imagine ourselves among the faithful, I suspect we would be the pious members of established religions that Jesus would be calling out. From all I've read of Jesus, he would feel most at home with the workers next door, drinking a few too many beers before heading home on a Friday evening. (I don't know that Jesus would partake; these guys just seem like his crowd.) He might rent a room at the boarding house down the block serving presently as a safe haven for one of the known sex offenders. Occasionally he might wander into one of those safe cul de sacs, calling out warnings and urging a change in direction, but I suspect he would be picked up quickly by our city's finest and carted back downtown. Despite my daily consideration of how I might live as Jesus did, and my regular admiration of his inclusivity, I suspect he actually made a pretty annoying neighbor....always hanging with that fringe element and making himself at home with those neighbors who make us most uncomfortable. Though I still believe my call to keep my children safe is my first priority, and I'll make future choices in accordance with this call, this neighborhood is a living example of the radical Jesus I believe walked the earth. And if he really is to come again, I suspect we're living with a front row seat for some of the houses he would be first to visit.

Cult of Personality

2006-04-08T16:32:00.000-04:00

I suppose most every couple has a root issue or conflict from which all other tension springs. For Matt and me, this issue is the difference in our personalities (and, by extension, our family personalities). You can guess from the ratio of my blog contributions to Matt's that I am the more vocal member of the family. When we first took an extended car ride together, I was convinced Matt was furious for some not-yet-named reason; the silence in the car seemed thick with unspoken anger, simply because silence was almost always a manipulative communication tool in my family growing up. In Matt's family silence rarely has meaning. It simply is. In my family, any single word rarely has meaning. It is the cumulative collection of a lifetime of talking and writing word after word after word that begins to approach some semblance of meaning.

Our children seem to be a mixture of us, with each leaning slightly toward one parent or another in the extraversion/introversion realm. Kyra is in many, many ways her father's daughter, reserved personality being one of them. Reserved is a good choice of words to describe them, as it accurately reflects how they often hold themselves back in public, but also how they reserve the very best of themselves for very private spaces. Kyra is wild at home--no other way to describe it! But if you were to meet her in unfamiliar territory, you wouldn't know she had yet learned to speak. Her father can also have very verbal moments when he is with his inner circle. I have long counted myself fortunate that he considers himself closest to me; I know his thoughts, regrets, fears and dreams better than anyone in the world. While I hold unique trust for him as well, there are others in the world who share some of the personal disclosures I have offered to him over the past 16 years. We are at once compelled and repelled by our differences.

Kyra has a close day care friend--we'll call her "M"--who draws the same attraction/repulsion emotions from her. As much a listener as Kyra is, M is a talker. Kyra holds back her physical affection for rare generous offering; M offers a squeeze you until your eyes bulge out hug to every child who walks through the day care doors. Despite Kyra's caution, she is very at home with crowds of boys (remember the rough team?), and her interests follow those of her male classmates. Though she has never seen a superhero movie or cartoon, she has action figures at home. She would sooner request a Power Ranger than a Barbie, and Matt and I encourage this because we prefer a child who can be her or himself over societal expectations, and because a little gender bending feels right to us. M, on the other hand, adores princesses and only princesses. When M's mom called last weekend to invite Kyra to a "dress up princess tea party," I honestly didn't understand what she meant at first. I knew there would be a princess theme, and certainly have hosted and participated in my share of tea parties, but I assumed "dress up" meant, well, church clothes. Midway through the week, it dawned on me that the girls would be dressing up as princesses. Oh! Completely different picture....

Kyra and Lucas have a bin overflowing with costumes--on any given day we host tigers, dogs, firefighters, train conductors, cowboys and girls, and clowns. But princesses? Not exactly! M's mom knows the girly crowd is not Kyra's style, so she offered that Kyra could borrow something from their extensive princess collection; she very kindly offered as an afterthought that Kyra could wear whatever she was comfortable wearing. I prepared Kyra for what the other girls might be wearing, and even managed to dig around and find some non-specific princess garb, but she refused my offerings of help. In the end, she wore a nice pair of capri pants, a sweater set, a necklace, ankle socks and sneakers. This was VERY dressed up for Kyra. Though there are numerous baby pictures of Kyra in dresses with matching tights, shoes with ribbons and lace, as soon as she had a mind of her own, the dresses came off. We had Auntie coax her into a dress for Lucas's dedication in church when she was nearly three years old. I believe it was our last significant effort to see her in anything "fancy." When I suggested this evening that she wear something nice for church tomorrow, she asked me to pull out her best jeans. This is who she is, through and through. Though some of the girls at the party know her well from day care, I was concerned about the collision between Kyra's idea of a princess dress up party and M's idea of a princess dress up party.

Some of my fears were validated--all seven of the other girls were wearing tiaras, Disney store-purchased princess attire (all dressing not only as princesses, but specific princesses--Ariel, Cinderella, Snow White, and more....), and those wretched princess high heel shoes that are a broken ankle in the making. Not all of my fears were accurate, however. I was concerned Kyra would feel out of place and uncomfortable; I thought she would feel unsettled and either quickly give in to M's mom offer of a dress or wind up in tears in the corner. Neither happened, despite that I checked in periodically to see if she was interested in a dress or comfortable as she was. My girl--capris, sweater set and all--even joined the other girls to participate in the princess parade. It seems already she has more confidence in herself and her choices than I potentially have now!

What bothered me about the party wasn't the dress difference, as I had assumed, but rather the occasional remarks about Kyra's personality. One of M's grandmothers has seen us now for a series of M's birthday parties, and even brought M and her sister to Kyra's party last summer. As soon as we walked through the door, she commented on Kyra's lack of a dress, pausing only for a quick breath before exclaiming to the group, "Kyra's just so shy!" One comment wasn't sufficient; she made a couple others to the collection of moms, and then even approached me at one point to comment on how shy Kyra had been when she had seen her with Matt at another child's birthday party. While I believe her intention was not to ostracize Kyra, I'm sensitive to remarks about her personality; they always feel judgmental to me. When Kyra crawled onto my lap while the others were playing freeze dance, I was torn between letting her stay and be where she was comfortable and urging her to "get out there and have fun like the other kids!" When Kyra would look to me for a twizzler or drink or anything at all from the party table rather than initiate conversation with M or M's mom, I wanted to somehow force her to open her mouth and just ask already! After warming up for the first hour or so, Kyra freely joined the other girls in the basement playroom, and was reluctant to leave as we gathered our things to go. Hmmmm....where was the "Kyra's so shy" grandmother then???

When I came home and found myself annoyed with Matt without any apparent cause, I began to analyze my own feelings about Kyra's personality. Matt and I had been talking about our plan to attend a family wedding (my side of the family; the wedding takes place on Matt's birthday--not an ideal draw, no matter your personality), and I found myself wanting him not to go. I wanted to not face the awkward conflict I often feel when I'm out with Matt or Kyra--do I express my own comfort and inclination toward being social, or do I stay close and hide out with them? Today, at the party, I was more reserved; in some ways, it was as though I was validating how Kyra is by being more like her. (I could write a completely different blog post about being a "church supper" kind of woman in the presence of the "five star restaurant, pass me the wine list" women, as that, too, is part of my holding back with this particular crowd.) Matt and I often joke that I am more him than he is some days. While I began going to movies on my own when we had babies, Matt no longer felt able to enjoy being out on his own! We have mixed and merged and become something quite different than when we first met, but when conflict arises, we fall firmly back into our personality camps. Life, being life, presents a perpetual string of conflicts, and we often retreat to modes of communication and expression that seem incompatible. Each time we anticipate a family holiday or vacation on one side or the other, the roots of our difference are exposed and raw. I can't speak for Matt (though many would say I do often!), but there are times when I honestly wonder how we persist in being together. The differences can feel that strong.

I suppose the balance tips just enough to the staying together side--we are just a tiny bit more attracted by the other person's differences than we are repulsed by them; we are just a tiny bit more compelled to better understand him or her than we are repelled in the other direction. And of course there is deep, lasting love there as well. My love for the kids comes right from my gut. My mother love requires no thought or decision; it simply is. With Matt, it is more of a choice--something I wrap my mind around and work my heart into. As I love and parent the reserved, private and very wonderful Kyra, I experience new depths of love (okay, I'll be honest--perhaps new depths of frustration, too, as evidenced when I returned home this afternoon!) for Matt as well. As the more outgoing Lucas grows, I'll have to ask Matt if he better understands and loves me, too. Of course I'll have to be prepared to wait for his answer....those introverts like to think things through, you know.

Cartwheel time....

2006-04-04T22:24:00.000-04:00

When my mom died 13 years ago this week, I devoured every book I could find on the experience of losing a parent--self-help books, memoirs, magazine articles. I was searching for some clue how to survive what was surely the most devastating blow of my 20 year life. There were words that moved me to tears (many, many tears), and words that spoke so directly to my experience, I felt a spiritual connection with the writer. Some anecdotes stayed with me for no apparent reason. One such story was about a girl's visit to her father's grave a year after he died. Quite spontaneously, this child turned a cartwheel over his grave. She had always loved cartwheels, but had stopped turning them when her dad died. Her symbolic gesture one year later was to let him know she would continue to embrace life; she would still find joy in the world.

Though I never made a conscious decision not to sing after my mom died, one day of silence turned into another and another and another. My mother had been aware of my intention to record some songs to be played for her memorial service, and after an afternoon of singing to her as she lay dying one room away, I began to sing "Wind Beneath My Wings." She knew this was one of the songs I had planned to sing for her service, and I was halfway through when a family friend ran into the room and called to me with a hushed voice, "She's dying, Jennifer. It's time!" I collected my sister from upstairs and we both rushed through the living room doors to witness the final gasps of our mother's breath. Some part of me knew it was a gift to sing my mother into the next life, but another deeper part of me felt partly responsible for her death. I had resisted singing the memorial service songs for more than an hour--I somehow knew they would be a prompt for her to let go and move on. I had always felt and believed my voice spoke to people, but the power of this last message felt too overwhelming to fully acknowledge.

After recording songs for her service, my world became very quiet. Music was somehow too powerful, too close, too connected to my already inescapable sadness. When I returned to college the following fall, I would occasionally sneak into a music practice room and sing in the stillness of that close space. After a lifetime of public performance and real comfort with the stage, I had no desire to share my voice in any way. The silence grew into anxiety, and again, without a conscious choice, years passed without my singing in any public forum. A friend whose parents were killed by a drunk driver had performed a concert with her siblings to mark the ten year anniversary of their deaths. For no reason other than Mary's story, I, too, decided ten years would mark the end of my silence. By that time I had a daughter and I sang frequently in my home. With some small prompting from members of my church, I sang a song in church on a summer Sunday. Nervous? Yes. Shaky hands, dry mouth, quivery voice? Yes. But I sang, and I was proud of my accomplishment.

I returned home to the audience of my two year old daughter and ever-devoted husband, and continued to offer the best of myself in only the smallest of spaces. This past fall, though, I knew I needed to let my dad and grandparents know I was singing still, even if only in the comfort of my own home. I recorded a CD and gave copies to members of my family as a Christmas present. At our church's annual "Blue Christmas" service, I shared tearfully how I made the CD as much for my mom--to give her the gift that I would still sing. One of the enthusiastic organizers of the women's fellowship encouraged me to share my music more publicly, and I (foolishly!) suggested that an evening program for the women's fellowship might be just the right context to do so. She didn't let me forget!

After a February date didn't work, the program was planned for this evening--April 4th, only two days before the anniversary of my mom's death. I was not only going to sing, I was going to sing in the fire of my loss. For weeks I have prepared my program, practicing, writing program notes, and courageously asking a family friend to sing with me a song from my mother's memorial service. Nervous again? Yes. Shaky hands, dry mouth, quivery voice? In the beginning, yes. But I persisted and sang, and even had moments of great joy in doing so. The kleenex was passed aisle to aisle, but I managed to leave the tears in the audience and saved mine for my return home.

Mom, thirteen years later, I turned this cartwheel for you....

Spoke too soon....

2006-04-02T22:18:00.000-04:00

The new bed novelty has officially worn off. The novelty for Lucas today? Climbing down from said new big boy bed and running into sister's room, over and over and over, eventually forcing exhausted parents to retreat and put big boy in his not-so-big-boy crib. I should have learned from Lindsey Jacobellis that early celebration is a sure way to lose the race....

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood....

2006-03-31T13:52:00.000-05:00

Yes indeed, it is! It is a perfectly sunny, breezy, 70 degree day....a day when you can't help but see the bright side of things. Lucas slept last night in his new big boy bed, waking only once at 3:30am (really, an incredible night for him!), and then up for good at 6am (can't wait to turn those clocks ahead!). As with the beautiful crib we have enjoyed for the past five years, this great new Lucas bed was lent to us. We LOVE having friends who share--and of course we're looking forward to returning the crib after a more than generous five year stay at our house! I was concerned that he might not nap in the bed--too much temptation to get up and run around the room--but he had fallen asleep while we were out running errands, and I was able to put him right back down without even a wink. Again, this NEVER happens. What is with this day?

Wait, it gets better! We hauled out the double stroller and enjoyed the many flowers in bloom on a walk to the doctor's office. (Have I mentioned it is perfectly sunny today??? No coat weather! Hooray!) This visit to the doctor was for both kids: Kyra was complaining about her ear, and Lucas was, as always, rubbing both of his. The bright side of this visit? We were taken into the examining room early....I mean literally early! Our appointment was with a physician's assistant at 10am, and we were taken in at 9:55am. Again, this NEVER happens! Kyra survived a throat culture and received the good news that her treatment is to eat more popsicles and sleep upright to drain a little bit of fluid in her right ear. And Lucas? NO EAR INFECTIONS! Can you imagine? She suspects he has a sinus infection and prescribed an antibiotic, but we're giving ourselves a couple of days of saline nose drops and aggressive cold treatment before we dive into the antibiotic of the hour. WOW--what great news!

I am so dwelling in the light of this day, I was only minorly bothered when Lucas tried to choke his sister by pinching her neck and literally ran aisles away from me when I let him down to walk in Target. (I should note that I did so only after he literally stood in the child seat of the cart three times. It was let him walk or watch him fall from great heights!) To what or whom do I credit this great day? Well, let me share. A year or two ago I read a book called Spiritual Parenting: A Guide to Understanding and Nurturing the Heart of your Child. I really loved this book and could talk about it quite extensively, but will share one particular instance that has stayed with me since. The book is written by partners who are also parenting together, and they detailed some challenging times with one son, in particular. They used to hold hands together and "pray" for this child by simply envisioning him in a circle of light. As I remember it, they were simply envisioning him in the presence of God. On mornings when I am clear enough to remember, or when I'm particularly concerned or nervous about the day ahead, I do just the same. In true "put your own oxygen mask on first" fashion, I envision myself in light, and then I do so for each of my family members. You might scoff, but I have consistently found that these days, while perhaps no different in their activities or make-up, have this sort of indescribable glow. All of my family look lovely and "of God" to me. Those simple moments in the morning make all of the difference. This morning, with a few extra moments as Lucas played on his own in his room (chewing on the wire of his monitor, but that's another anxiety-producing story for another anxiety-producing day!), I did just this--one by one, I envisioned us in light. Try it--you, too, might find yourself walking in light for a day!

Early anatomy lessons

2006-03-27T22:50:00.000-05:00

Kyra's bedroom has a small set of built-in bookshelves. Until the completion of Lucas's room last spring, they were the only bookshelves in the house. When I decided to hold onto "What to Expect the First Year" and "Your Baby, Your Child" while gleefully pitching the pregnancy books, Kyra's room seemed the best place to store them. Fast forward to today.... I was dressing for a quick celebratory visit to the college (our ten year service award!) and Matt and I were both frustrated with the kids' inability to settle for a nap or, at minimum, a "rest" as we call Kyra's time off....or is that really our time off? Anyway, Matt could hear Kyra moving about her room and went upstairs to encourage her to sleep. He came down barely stifling a laugh. Apparently Kyra has been perusing the child-care books, paying particular attention to what she called her "favorite page." The page with which she was so fascinated? Penis care, complete with two illustrations--one of the circumcised penis, and one with the uncircumcised penis. Matt described her as studying the images intently.

I should note that nudity and body part discussion is hardly taboo in our house. We were early proponents of the "proper words" for anatomy, and we continue to be despite embarrassing moments from time to time (including two-year-old Kyra going around the table of an extended family gathering at a restaurant considering aloud the particular parts that might belong to the person seated there!). We do discourage much contact with her brother's private parts, despite that she is more than happy to help him push his penis down into his little potty. (As a side note, those little potties present quite a challenge! I had no idea when we had a girl in potty-mode. The shield is handy, but it rises so high, the poor little guy ends up stuck on nearly every "mount!") We have presumed our comfort with bodies just being bodies, private parts and all, might limit some of the fascination so in evidence at naptime. Not so!

Fast forward a bit further.... Matt had left for his basketball league, the kids had just completed their baths, and Kyra, after being removed from the tub early for a series of poor choices, was crying fitfully for her Daddy. I was trying to get Lucas into a diaper, stifling my own laugh as he tugged and tugged on his own penis making the "Chhhhh" sound he and Kyra make when they play firefighter. Apparently, with no prompting from elsewhere, he already understands the power of his hose! Unaware of this firefighter role play in full swing, Kyra wandered in holding the book open to her favorite page. She held it up and, with tear-filled eyes and a completely serious voice said, "This is how I remember Daddy--by looking at these."

Will they ever forgive me for writing this? Absolutely not. Would I forgive myself if I neglected to do so? Absolutely not. Ah, the bind these blogs put us in....

It's all in the name...

2006-03-26T15:37:00.000-05:00

This morning Kyra asked why/how we selected her name. The answer is simple--we both had liked it for years, and were absolutely agreed if we had a girl, Kyra would be her name. Lucas is a bit more complicated. We had a Jennifer, a Kyra, and a Matthew. Because I crave order and have been known to obsess about word games, the missing "L" in our J, K and M family stood out grotesquely. We had some ideas for "L" girls--Lyndsey was my choice, and Lauryn was Matt's. (I believe Abigail would have been the middle name, but my memory is quickly fading on this...) The "L" boy seemed a bit more challenged. Louis? Nah. Laurence? Double nah. We liked Luke, but we had always wanted "Cooper" for a middle name (more on this in a moment....), and the double "k/hard c" sound of Luke Cooper always felt awkward. Logan seemed to fit for awhile, but two weeks before I was due I decided (in true summer pregnancy style) it WOULD NOT DO AT ALL! No, never! When a new baby at Kyra's day care was named "Lucas," she had begun to call my belly "Baby Lucas." For three months, while Matt and I were still debating the Lauryn/Lyndsey choice (Lauryn, by the way, was due to win out.), Kyra called this being inside "Baby Lucas." We were so convinced it would be a girl, we barely gave it a second thought.

When I was two days overdue and rapidly tiring of being pregnant, I said to Matt, "Maybe it's actually a boy and he knows we don't have a name for him yet." We rubbed that beautiful belly, asked the baby to come and said, "We want you to know, we will pick a name when you arrive. We won't know until we see you." Well, surprise, surprise, within hours my water broke. Many hours later still, a baby boy was nestled in my arms, nameless, with "Baby Boy" on all his official hospital garb and ID cards to prove his parents indecision. Three hours after this, with only Auntie and Kyra aware a baby had been born, we were feeling pressed to make some calls. We needed a name! With three months of practice at Lucas, we attached the Cooper I had always wanted, and it seemed a good enough fit. Lucas Cooper he would be. Let the calls begin!

I share this story to say that the Lucas aspect of our dear boy's name is trivial in some ways--I had that missing letter obsession, Kyra had selected a name she had heard, and we just couldn't come up with anything better. But the Cooper was a point of real attachment. As you have read previously, Matt and I are BIG fans of Cooperstown, NY. We met there, we hope someday to live there (though retirement seems like the life phase we are presently aiming for....), and we wanted to mark our shared connection to the beautiful lake and town with the name "Cooper." I can state quite emphatically that Matt and I are not fans of the town because of a lifelong baseball obsession. I've been to the Baseball Hall of Fame once, and I suspect Matt hasn't been many more times. Lucas Cooper, however, might feel a bit of the baseball connection. This morning he was strolling aimlessly around the house. We have an open floor plan with all the rooms leading naturally into the next, and I find lately I get a little nervous when Lucas begins to circle the downstairs. He did so this morning with a green and white bouncy ball in his hand. As I knelt on the kitchen floor tying Kyra's sneakers, Lucas approached the kitchen table opposite where Matt was eating breakfast. With more fluidity than I have ever found in throwing overhand, Lucas lifted that bouncy ball and chucked it across the table, squarely hitting a tall glass of water left over from my own breakfast. Matt leapt into the air as water sprayed all down his left side, Kyra's shoes barely escaped being drenched, and Lucas looked like it was just another day at the park. The ball park, that is. Clearly the name is in him.... And I should mention as an afterthought, he's nothing but a Lucas for us now. The name, once a point of indifference for us, now represents him through and through. We couldn't ask for more than our Kyra Elisabeth and Lucas Cooper, names, faces, personalities and all!

The Talent Given Us

2006-03-25T14:06:00.000-05:00

Matt's given talent seems to be finding obscure, little-known independent films that, despite (or perhaps because of) their no-name status, are quite thought-provoking and interesting. Last night's pick was The Talent Given Us. In a truly bizarre blending of fact and fiction, reality and fantasy, a screenwriter/director created a script about a family (seemingly based on his own) and then cast his entire family in it. The family is traveling cross-country to set things right with the frequently out-of-touch screenwriting son, and so, indeed, to create this film, the entire family traveled across the country together. The film shifted from humorous to downright painful at times (Don't we all have road trip family memories we would just as soon forget?), but when taken with the special feature "making of the movie" clips, it was all just bizarre and fun. Ultimately the family self-promoted the film (despite making it to Sundance, they were not picked up by a distributor), and I'm certainly willing to do my part. Watch it!

Following the movie we got sucked into some buzzer beater basketball games in the NCAA men's tournament. I tend not to watch on principle, as I get frustrated that the men's tournament gets so much interest in contrast to the women's, but last night's closing minutes of a couple of different games made for truly edge of your seat basketball watching. We didn't make our way to bed until 1:30am (forgetting temporarily that our lives don't accomodate these hours!), and then both kids were up and in our bed, WIDE AWAKE, at 5am. Poor Lucas was approaching his final dose of an antibiotic we once believed him to be allergic to. It was his wonderful father who last night spoke the fateful words, "Well it certainly seems like he's not allergic," before discovering at 6:30am this morning that his son was not sleeping because he was (is!) covered head to toe in hives. Apparently that conversation took place about 10 hours too soon. Time for more Benadryl....

Potty humor for all ages

2006-03-23T21:44:00.000-05:00

I was a half hour from home the other day, driving down our local "strip mall highway," Route 1. I looked up to a sign that prompted the following two thoughts:

1. Bathroom humor, while something we actively discourage in our potty-crazed Kyra, is really amusing throughout one's life, and

2. If I were a real blogger, I would drive home right now, grab my camera and drive right back. I'm not sure mere words can do this sign justice!

As you know I am not a real blogger, the words will have to suffice. The billboard was advertising a company that works on home foundations--repair, filling cracks, etc.

The punch line (at least, as I read it!): "Because a dry crack is a happy crack!"

These are just the words I'll use when Kyra next refuses to wipe her bum.

BFI, interview style

2006-03-21T21:24:00.000-05:00

I have had yet another beyond first impressions moment. I survived yesterday's interview at super-duper university, and though I don't anticipate being named as one of the two finalists, I feel I presented myself well and did justice to my abilities and experiences. Of course interview days are not simply to present oneself, but also to take in and evaluate the presentations of others. While most of my interviews (12 hours plus of them!) were one on one, the day began with a group of ten. Within the group there were some vocal questioners, some actively engaged listeners, and some listeners who didn't always seem to be with me in the room. Today, as I was sending thank you emails to the many, many interviewers (no worries--a formal, written message went to the chair; my fabulous career mentor said I could be off the handwritten hook on the whole crew since there were so many of them!), I struggled a bit more to personalize with those listeners who didn't always seem as tuned in and connected. In such circumstances, I tended to default to speaking about "areas"--as in, areas of overlap between the center I would direct and their particular center or office. Thoughout the day I have received responses from the interviewers--typically a basic "Thanks for taking the time to talk with us" message. Tonight one of the interviewers I would have perceived as not checked in sent a thoughtful, thought-provoking message many paragraphs long. I guess the group conversation simply isn't his style. Yet again, the book beneath the cover is far different than I had imagined. Beyond first impressions....

Miscellany....

2006-03-14T13:18:00.000-05:00

I took today off with the intention of executing a trial travel run before Monday's marathon day of interviews ("meetings" I like to call them, as I'm a rare bird who actually likes meetings and this makes me feel far more confident and calm about my 8am-8pm day!). A rainy start to the day, a delayed meeting by phone for my current work, and general laziness kept me home. I fortunately took Thursday off also, knowing that one of my planned days would likely fall through in just this manner--and I'm hopeful on Thursday Matt can join me as well!

After I pried my fingers off my laptop keyboard (I once gave up at-home computer time for Lent; I learned a lot about myself during that 40 plus day period!), I decided I had to do something productive. One of Matt's employees is awaiting the birth of a baby, and we are celebrating with a shower on Friday. (Shhh....it's a secret! I don't think anyone who knows or works with him reads the blog--Matt being an obvious exception--so I'm hoping I'm safe with this one!) Despite that this year we are resisting any "unnecessary" expenditures for our Lenten period of engagement and reflection, I decided a trip to Babies 'R' Us was justified. This is obviously a stretch of the term "necessary," but it is important toward sustaining our relationship with someone who has been remarkably generous to us and our children. (I could write an entirely separate blog on the "even exchange" model of gift-giving so many of us participate in, but that will wait for another day....) The 8-10 page registry (lost count!) displayed few unpurchased items, but I still managed to pull together a couple of toys, feeding implements and onesies in what I think will be a suitable gift set.

Visiting Babies 'R' Us post-baby is a completely different experience than pre-baby. You are suddenly the one "in the know" and "in the cheap," and most every item seems frivolous and unnecessary. We were fortunate to be able to borrow many large items (e.g., crib, double stroller), and recycled furniture and clothes at every conceivable opportunity, but we still found ourselves with "stuff." Our kids were bathed in the made-for-baby bathtub for just a few weeks (and visit any baby consignment shop to see where all those new tubs visit for their final resting place!), and we still need to get on eBay to sell the high-end children's backpack we were convinced we absolutely needed for all the hiking we were planning to do. HA! The cupboard full of sippy cups rarely gets tapped, and we have silver baby utensils sitting in the china cabinet because, as yet, I feel too guilty to give them away or sell them! If only we knew then what we know now.... I might have been able to survive my shopping trip without this diatribe had I not seen this when I walked through the door. I guess we all have our own ideas of what we actually need to care for a baby. (Perhaps if I had bathed in one of these as a child, I would be better suited to the life of luxury I just know is waiting for me!)

Returning home to my computer, after the minor detour of a walk, I read this and found it fascinating. Perhaps I could manage my yoga DVD more than once or twice a month if afflicted as this father and daughter. Then again, maybe not!

And in the midst of all this frivolous exchange, I am so aware of my day-to-day separation from war and poverty and the global devastation we participate in with our actions and inactions. My safe, comfortable life enfolds me in a cocoon of partial ignorance and occasional ambivalence. In my mind, I want to break free from that cocoon and see the world as it truly is, but in my heart, I know it would be too much to bear.

Call 911, or just shout out the door!

2006-03-13T21:44:00.000-05:00

We have only one phone connected downstairs, a cordless phone hanging in the kitchen near our entryway. We used to have one in another room on the desk, but Lucas became a bit too curious; we were increasingly concerned we would either awaken a West Coast relative early in the morning or discover the police, fire and rescue squads of our fine city on our door step. I don't know about your household, but ours has horrible luck with cordless phones. Either the batteries fail to hold a charge or the keypad loses its sensitivity and the number buttons stick or fail to connect at all. If you want a call back and your phone number no longer appears in our "received calls" list, you're unlikely to hear from us! If we can't press a simple "redial," we're screwed. A couple of weeks ago I was at my sister's house and discovered her cordless phone is in a similar state. After a ten minute effort to dial Matt's cell phone number, I was ready to give up. We realized, anxiety-prone though we are, neither of us had considered a plan to call 9-1-1 if the number 9 was having a particularly sticky day or the number 1 was temporarily out of service. Honestly, what is the point of teaching Kyra how to dial the number if a shout out the window is more likely to ensure success? If you see our door open and hear cries for help, call 9-1-1 on our behalf--and please, by all means, don't dial from your cordless phone!

Flight of the Ladybugs

2006-03-12T22:58:00.000-05:00

We've just returned from a weekend at Matt's parents' home in central New York. They are unbelievably kind--transporting themselves to a basement bedroom so we can have the upstairs rooms near the bathroom. When I was horribly nauseous while pregnant this room swap began, and it hasn't stopped yet. You would think we would offer them our comfy king-sized bed on their visits to our home instead of our "guest futon," but we have yet to do so. At least we offer them the freedom on the futon of being a floor away from our frequent night-waking children!

For some unknown reason, Matt's parents' home is infested with ladybugs. "Infested" is likely too strong a word, but they are present enough that we pause to shake out our clothes in the morning or brush off the pillow when going to bed. Despite being both harmless and beautiful, ladybugs were worthy of a full-blown phobia for Kyra on this trip. She and Lucas were attempting to share a bedroom--a scene that reminds me just how much I have become like my parents! For a couple of hours each evening we would sit in the living room listening to the loud giggles and shrieks from under their door. (This shared room arrangement became even more interesting when Lucas learned how to crawl out of his pack 'n' play and didn't hesitate to do so!) I absolutely remember hours of illicit laughter and play behind closed doors with my own sister, as parental "tone" became increasingly threatening from the other side of the door. I'm certain our two believed they were equally invisible to us behind closed doors, and found our "tone" just as amusing as I once did. Our big threat? Kyra would need to move to "our room" (also known as Grandma and Grandpa's room, though our kids have never seen them sleep there!). The ladybugs are more plentiful in there, so this was fear-inducing for Kyra. We only followed through on the threat during a nap, and even then Matt had to build a special card table tent for her and I eventually capitulated and slept with her on their bed (not that I minded the nap....). At the start of this post I was contemplating asking for ladybug remedies, but as I recount the power of the threat, I'm realizing their presence likely works in our favor.

And speaking of phobias, I suppose it is only fitting that I have a child with at least a mild neurosis. My big fear? V O M I T! In all forms, as it affects all senses--the sound of someone throwing up, the sight of someone throwing up, the smell of throw up, the memory of someone throwing up. On and on I could describe this fear, but I actually get a little twinge in my stomach and my mouth starts that awful pre-puke salivating just by typing the words. My mother once explained the root of my fear as being the frequent car sickness of my sister in early travels. Apparently I was often the target of the surprise vomit attack and this had a lifelong effect. Anyway, we visited an outlet mall on the way to Matt's parents. After relative success in purchasing new shoes for the kids (who grew out of their current pairs overnight--no lie--and were suddenly coming home with daily blisters), we were driving down the hill to rejoin the Mass. Turnpike. A car in front of us stopped suddenly. Matt slammed on the brakes just as quickly and said, "You've got to be kidding me," in disgust. Meanwhile I had a front row seat for the passenger in the car leaning out to expel her lunch, her breakfast, and potentially a snack from the night before. Not pretty--and a sight we were fortunate enough to witness again at a red light at the bottom of the hill. For those who know about my phobia, you can imagine the consequences--my instant queasiness, my reaching for the plastic bags every time one of the kids even coughed. I am still racing around the house with Clorox wipes, hoping against hope to outclean the nasty stomach virus as it moves its way through the northeast. I'm glad to know I'm not alone in my fears. Catherine Newman, of Ben and Birdy fame, wrote about her own barf fears here. After learning that the friends who hosted Kyra last weekend for the aforementioned sleepover had been chased down by this virus soon after her departure, I spent the entire week living in dread. I actually said to Matt, "If given the choice between being independently wealthy and having none of my family members throw up ever again, I'd take the 'no vomit' option." It's just that bad!

Let the sleepovers begin!

2006-03-06T22:16:00.000-05:00

When we attended our pre-op appointment for Lucas last Thursday, we were informed not to bring any additional children with us on the day of surgery. If the words hadn't been printed on their customary "instructions form," I would have assumed they were spoken just for us--the parents who had both their children crawling up and down their legs as they attempted to carefully read about death, brain damage, and other potential effects of anesthesia. I kid you not (pun not intended)--before we were told not to bring Kyra this morning, it hadn't even occurred to us she wouldn't come along!

Fortunately for us, we have good friends nearby with kids the same ages as our two. We have vacationed together, spent New Years Eve together mourning the loss of our freedom (oh, yes--and celebrating that we could be up every 1-2 hours with our then-babies!), and shared countless hours of play dates and field trips around southeastern Massachusetts and Rhode Island. Timothy, the four-almost-five year old in this other family, is far and away Kyra's best friend. He stayed overnight at our house twice when his sister Anna was born, but Kyra hadn't yet had the opportunity to do the same. When we considered our early-morning departure to the hospital, last night seemed the perfect night for Kyra's first friend sleep away night. (She has had the fortune of Auntie Heather-hosted sleepovers, so technically this wasn't her true first, but a friend feels different somehow!)

We arrived at bedtime and it was clear Kyra was in for some fun. Timothy had set up a sleeps-two tent in his room and was all ready for the ultimate camp-in evening. I don't know whether I was anxious about the surgery, her sleepover, or both, but I found myself giving more instructions than I had intended. I was planning to follow Matt's lead and be totally casual, modeling for Kyra that sleepovers are just boring, every day kinds of things that most everyone does. Instead, I was quizzing her about using her words if she felt sick, if she felt sad, if she had to go to the bathroom but was worried about flushing the toilet. On and on....thankfully Kyra's joy wasn't in any way dampened by my extensive grilling! Kyra was spared by our desire to get home for the Oscars, so we popped out nearly as quickly as we had popped in.

When I called post-surgery (the stories of which we will save for another day--suffice it to say, Matt is a saintly parent for watching his son go under anesthesia, and Lucas is a superior patient; all is well with that adorable right ear), Kyra had absolutely no interest in speaking with me. I should have taken this as the first sign of what would greet me in the afternoon when I picked her up. Instead, I coaxed her into talking to her brother on the phone so I could hear a word or two about her night. Melanie filled me in on the gaps: French toast sticks for breakfast, a short time playing outdoors before everyone became too cold to stay out, and the infamous brother/sister sort of arguing Timothy and Kyra are known to do. Typically this is the "who is taller (Kyra), who is older (Timothy), and what does this say about who will be grown up first?" line of reasoning and debate. I begged for a few more hours of relative peace at home for the still a little bit grumpy Lucas and went off for my own nap.

I went to pick Kyra up late afternoon and things had soured a bit for Melanie. Timothy had just slammed Anna's finger in the door and she was trying to decide whether to go to the emergency room or the pediatrician. Kyra, meanwhile, had decided she wanted to live there--forever. Though I was able to get her to the car with relative ease due to Melanie leaving simultaneously with both her kids, it was a teary ride home (and an outright sob-filled evening by the time we arrived home!) as Kyra faced the transition from the newness of life with her friend to the same old, same old at home. She exclaimed over and over how she hadn't missed us one bit--not for an instant--and she was even able to flush the toilet on her own. (Note to self--stop flushing it for her at home if she is so obviously capable!) She walked through the door to a delighted brother and declared that she wanted to go and live with Timothy and his family forever. She never, ever wants to live with us again.

This routine catches me off-guard every time. (Kyra has the same trouble with transitioning home from Auntie's house.) She is reserved and parent-centered enough that I would expect her to come rushing to our arms, ecstatic to return to the comfort and safety of home. Clearly behind her quiet exterior is a girl who craves change and adventure. (Let's see if this pans out when she's in her twenties!) Kyra's shift to home is a storm we simply must ride out. My best attempts to talk with her, reason with her, question her feelings so I can better understand them are futile.

By bedtime she was exhausted, curled up against me, forcing her eyes to stay open as I read one story to her from her Highlights magazine. Rarely one to admit exhaustion, she uncharacteristically exclaimed, "I'm so tired. I think I could go to sleep right now." We said prayers, she linked her arms around me, nestled into my shoulder and fell asleep. Perhaps we're not such a bad crowd to return to after all....