Home again

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

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?

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....

....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....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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....

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....

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!

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

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

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!

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.