When Julie Andrews comes to stay

Warning: cheesy post alert (and no, that does not mean it is a food post, but that my darling hubby thinks I have lost all literary tact). Cheesy or not, I figure sometimes ya' gotta focus on what ain't broke.

Rain makes me crabby and kittens are noisy
'only see snowflakes when I go to Boise
Don't care for winter, my bed needs new springs...

These are a few of my favorite things (for under $5):

Trader Joe's Salsa Verde -mixed with sour cream and eaten with corn chips after school with the kiddos.

Capitol Aquarium. Free admission, because it's actually a store, but they have an indoor Koi pond, an electric eel named Smud (named after our local electric company), a 400 gallon fish tank with ginormous fish in it, and a cichlid named Sherbet that you are allowed to tease. We tell the kids it is Marine World, which works until they're about 5.

Fancy cheese from Grocery Outlet for $1.99. Current favorites: Havarti Dill and Smoked Gouda (Guy says it's very gooda).

My magic Filipino broom. about 4 bucks at the Asian market. Magic, because normally I can spend about 10 minutes to sweep a room with a normal lame American broom. The same floor will take about 2 minutes with my Magic Broom. I calculated once that over the course of one year, I save 26 hours of sweeping time. That means I get a whole day back every year that I use it. What other cleaning appliance gives you that?

Extreme Moose Tracks ice cream from Safeway, on sale $2.50 for a half gallon. But don't go buy it because they might run out and then I won't get any (it is like a frozen chocolate massage...um, ok, sorry. That is just weird.).

Eating a ripe pear (pealed) over the sink and being all drippy about it.

Jack Johnson, Duncan Sheik, Peter Gabriel, Natalie Merchant, Indigo Girls, Crowded House... on volume 8... 10 if the kids are home. (I got most of these at used stores like Dimple on Sunrise or via Columbia House online when they do promotions with free shipping).

Eco Thrift on Greenback and San Juan in Sacramento. Organized, great used clothes -cool stuff for $.98-$3.98, mostly. Big dressing rooms, too.

Jango.com, free streaming music. You choose the genre, then rate songs you like or don't, the website creates a radio station for you with similar songs to what you have chosen. I love it.

Second Saturday in downtown Sac (free). All the galleries stay open late. They serve cheese and crackers and fruit, and if you are lucky, you will get to see the flamboyant Tuxedo Twins in their limo.

Used books from http://www.amazon.com/ and http://www.half.com/. I have been finding some great books for under a dollar (add $3.99 for S&H and you have a whole penny left for your "go-to-Hawaii-someday" jar). My latest finds: Parenting Teens with Love and Logic (to help me with my pre-teen with full blown teen-tude), and Love and Logic Challenges (see above).

Online movie reservations from the public library. FREE!!!! Yes, you have to wait until you have grey hairs in your ears before some of them come in but they have a ton of flicks. They hold them for 10 whole days, and if you realize at 11:30pm that they were due back today, you can recheck them for 3 more weeks online.

Date nite, Barnes and Noble and my hunny. Open till 11pm, lots of floor space to sit side by side and look at cookbooks and art books. Priceless!

Fences

Warning: Placenta-Talk Zone Ahead

For 12 years I have worked in childbirth, either having babies or helping other women to do so. If I had a buck for every time I have comforted a pukey first trimester mama, an aching full bellied mama a week past her due date, or a weepy mama with sore nipples and a screaming newborn, I could pay for new carpet. It is work I love. I love, love, love being the person who gets to throw the life ring into the water. There is probably some psychiatric term for people like me, folks who like to rescue. It's in my blood; my dad was once an ambulance driver, my mom worked in mental hospitals, just about everyone in my family has dabbled in special education, teaching, fostering... rescuing. It feels so good to help someone to feel less... less pain, less fear, less confusion.

And I have a lot of personal experience to lend to the discussion(s). Cesarean, epidural complications, natural birth, postpartum depression, infection, breastfeeding challenges... I can often relate to a mama directly, just by looking in my own back yard of pregnancy and childbirth experiences. It's a regular landfill.

Today I find myself on the other side of my fence. Over here, nothing is familiar. Over here there is going to be a bunch of stuff to learn and figure out. I never imagined I would be on this side of this particular fence.

My appointment at the infertility clinic is at 11:00.

What's (not) cookin'

I had an idea.

"Honey, people have been asking me for the recipe you invented for my birthday. I was gonna just post it on my blog... I mean, if that's ok with you..."

"No."

I laughed. He is so funny.

"No," he repeated seriously. "It's not ok. That's my recipe."

I can't believe it. My most easy going husband - my I could care less, fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants, devil may care hubby, feeling protective of his recipes. This from a man that seriously would be okay with me taking belly dancing lessons, with having Thanksgiving with perfect strangers (which we did once), with sharing money, food, and shelter with whom ever might need it.

But, apparently, not his recipes. Hmmm.

I have heard of these strange creatures out in the culinary-wild, but this is the first time I have encountered one in real life.

So, for now, I guess I will have to share the experience of his splendiferous concoctions via the written word. He says he may write a cook book someday. Let's all hope.

This stuff is way too good to keep to ourselves.

A new page in my book

For the past year I have been dreading my birthday. Yesterday I turned 40, and up to that point I had (have!) been a huge baby about the whole thing. To me, 40 seems half way to dead, and that’s if I live to see 80. I am in utter shock that my life is moving by so quickly, and a little bummed that I haven’t done more with it. So I pouted around for the past week and told Guy I didn’t want to celebrate.

Generally, I am a big fan of birthdays, but this one had been hard for me. The year has not gone at all as planned. The only saving grace being that I was to bridging the gap to “middle age” (eww) by bringing a new life to the planet. I guess I had hung way too much on that hat rack. This birthday had come with a sense of loss. All my life, 40 has seemed like the beginning of the end, the winding down, the getting fat-and-slow-and-sore. I pictured 40 as the year you become an extra in the film of your own life, while children take the center stage. The year you start talking about your aches and your retirement plan and new facial hair. The year you lose you.

But it came. It came despite my attempts to ward it off. I woke up yesterday, and I was oooooold (all of my over 40 friends can laugh at this point). Like I said, I was being a huge baby. I battled the kids to get ready for church and showed up 20 minutes late, already refining the “slow” part of old. But at church, no one appeared to notice that I was creaking while I walked or that there were cobwebs in my ears. Everyone seemed right pleased to wish me a good day, until by the end of church, paper birthday- crown on my head, I was feeling a little bit, well… normal. I hadn’t even had a single cardiac arrhythmia, and as far as I could tell, my bladder was holding out just fine.

But like a good little granny, I came home and took a nap. I woke to the beautiful music of my hubby on the piano, and yummy smells from the kitchen. The kids were in the studio being “busy” (“Don’t come in here, mom.” said with a secret-y smile, homemade birthday cards hidden behind backs), and all seemed well with the world.

My husband presented me with his cherished gift... hours spent in painstaking preparation culminating to the pinnacle of a gorgeous gourmet meal. Just for me, he invented a chicken breast stuffed with cream cheese, cashews, bacon, spinach and red onion, topped with smoked gouda and roasted pear slices, with a sweet, tangy pear cream sauce on the side. Beside it was a brilliant orange scoop of mashed sweet potatoes mingled with onion and bacon, followed by broccoli and French bread. A meal fit for royalty. I had a battle I have never had before; ‘which flavor do I choose as my last, lingering bite?’. It was a toughy. I went with the chicken.

Just as we were finishing up, friends began to arrive. There were so many people Guy would have invited if I would have let him, but I could only expose my aging underbelly to a select few (exposure metaphoric, of course. I'm not that far gone yet). We laughed and visited, and opened gifts. Peggy and “Baker” (as he is known to my children, David to us), did the foster-grandparent thing that they shine at, becoming hug dispensers and jungle gyms for my kids.

My friends know me so well… Heidi remembered my skin allergies when choosing bath soaps. From Steph, an elegant hand stamped box filled with “love notes”, little embellished cards for me to use for love notes for my dear ones, (and dark chocolates!). Dave had spent 3 days designing and building a journal for me (which will need be a post all unto itself). I actually want to hug it, it is so wonderful. Ethan remembered the name of my favorite childhood book, Girl of the Limberlost, and ordered it specially. We will read it together. Guy helped the kids each choose something special. That's the word for it all... special.

We indulged in an amazing chocolate Ganache cake with strawberry cream filling and the most amazing icing I have ever had (though true to form, Guy was analyzing the texture, calculating future improvements to the recipe). We stayed up really late, on a school night no less, and talked art, religion and food. We said goodbyes under a moody sky that teased with random rain drops, and I could not say enough thankyous to satisfy the bubbling gratitude I felt in my chest.

My hunny and I walked across the wet grass holding hands at nearly midnight, and soon inside, were washing up the dishes. I flashed back to our first night of premarital dish-doing so many years ago. Time has passed, but some things have not changed.

What a blessed day. I fought it so hard. Silly. If getting older means better food, better friends, more time with my sweet family and more gratitude in my heart, maybe it won’t be that bad after all. After all, I will never be younger than I am today, and I have a whole new book to write.

Somebody's watching

Everyone has little quirky things they do that they don't even notice.

Apparently, I pull my hair up into a loose pony and throw a towel

over my shoulder while I do dishes. How do I know?

Because somebody must have been watching.

Toddler Philosophy

The other day at the pool, the sun was glaring in my eyes so brightly that I sat on the step with my hands under my chin, my eyes closed. Tessa-loo came up and wrapped her drippy hands around my shoulders, giving me a start and a little chill.

"Why you got you eyes shut, mama?"

"The sun is too bright." says I.

"Den why you don't put sunblock in your eyes. Dat be all better."

Now, why didn't I think of that?

Still Waters

In my front yard I have a little pond. I dug it myself and framed it with rocks from my sister's ranch. Right now it is a mess. It is over grown, weedy and wild. The reeds are growing up in random directions and the lily pads are so thick you can't even see the bright orange fish in the dark, still water. The nasturtiums that usually creep sweetly around the pond and dip their toes in the cool water are now just plain creepy. My Japanese Maple tree, a gift from my husband on our tenth anniversary, looks like a hairy Muppet in desperate need of a trim. The braided foliage of last season's bulbs lay brown upon the ground, and the geraniums are covered with spent blooms.

My poor little pond is a mess.

It's time for the raccoon.

About twice a year, a local raccoon stumbles upon my pond. The first time it happened, he cleaned me out in two nights. I woke one morning to find a tidy pile of fins and scales stacked neatly in the middle of the walkway. Apparently, fins are too cartilaginous for his refined pallate. He had consumed two 6 inch comets, and returned the second night for the last one. In the process, he also knocked over the reeds, toppled the rocks and pulled up the lily's root ball.

The pond looked destroyed, but really it was a blessing. It had needed a good thinning and cleaning, and I had needed a good reason. It is not a simple job, and I spend an hour or two up to my knees in mucky water before the task is complete, but it is well worth the energy. The pond sparkles afterward, the plantings look elegant instead of ridiculous, and a zen-like peacefulness descends where chaos once ruled. In my continued efforts at mosquito abatement, I restocked the pond, this time with speedy little 10 cent goldfish. It would be some months before a raccoon would even notice them, but eventually they, too, became the midnight snack of my masked bandit.

And so we go, he and I. Sometimes he tears up my pond and never gets a fish. Sometimes he cleans me out in a night. Always he leaves a mess. Always when I am done cleaning it up, the pond is more beautiful than ever.

In this cycle of destruction and reconstruction, something happened. My pump broke. The water was no longer able to circulate.

Then came what can only come in still water. A lily. A creamy, beautiful, lemon-kissed bloom that opens in the morning light, closes tightly with the setting sun, and lingers for days. It is breathtaking.

I don't know what it is about me and the lessons I seem to learn from things like chickens and gardens and old trees. Maybe God has to talk to me this way because it is the only way he can get me to pay attention.

This is what my pond has taught me: Sometimes you need a raccoon to tear things up a bit to get you to do the deep work that you were always capable of doing. And sometimes beautiful things will appear when, quite by accident, your water becomes still.

Ressurection

About 5 years ago, the 50 year old Modesto Ash tree in our front yard met it's match with a wind storm that blew through town. More than ironically, I had been standing in the front yard not 10 minutes before with the lady from the Sacramento Tree Foundation, talking about that tree. It was oddly shaped from having become codependent on a nearby Canary Palm that had recently moved to live at a resort in the desert (and that is a story for another day. Honestly, I don't make this stuff up).

As the tree lady and I went to the back yard to look at the trees there, the Ash tree succumbed to the blustery day, nearly half of it splitting off and crashing to the ground in the exact place that we had been standing. Strangely, miraculously, blessedly, the branch that was squarely aimed at our house missed, where only 3 feet away from the window, baby Ellie lay sleeping. When we returned to the front yard, we found it laying at a 90 degree angle to the direction it had been leaning. I told anyone who would listen that God reached down and pushed it aside with his mighty finger. The branch twisted and flipped, laying itself across our lawn and trailing all the way to our neighbors front porch.

We were unbelievably blessed that day.

We kept the remaining tree, thinking that we might somehow save the old fellow. A few years passed, when one day my husband noticed a terrible split running the length of another large branch. It was too much. Too dangerous. The tree needed to be "put down".

I was so sad to loose my tree. Trees are not like people to me, they are people. They have a magical life to them that I love. They whisper in the fall, and make every afternoon breeze into a ticker tape parade. In winter they carve the grey sky with black, reaching limbs, and bring glorious relief as they announce the coming of spring on budded branches. Generously, they dapple the grass with delicious shade in the summer. They may actually have fairies in them, I think.

I was sad, but I knew it had to be done.

Our wonderful 70-something friends, Dan Mealy and Gerald Corbett, came to help us bring down my dear tree. A long while of negotiating angles and ropes resulted in a very brief but very nerve wracking and thrilling 30 seconds as the tree came down. They made some well placed cuts and tied the tree to the bumper of an old Ford and with the gunning of the engine, down it came.

I was too sad to think of my good old tree being burned in a temporary blaze of less-than-glory as firewood, so I put an add on craigslist for an artist to come and save my tree. I wanted to give it another life, an new chance to continue on. I also wanted to support an artist and give them materials, sometimes hard to come by when you are broke and making art.

A kind young man named Chris contacted me and came out with his chainsaw to take my tree trunk home with him. When he arrived, he pointed out a meandering black line in the trunk's interior wood. It was damage from the rotting tree that had creeped down deep into the wood. "Oh, no, does this mean you can't use it?" I asked. "Oh, no." he said, and then he explained that this was coveted in woodworking. The black line would leave a beautiful and unique design in the finished pieces.

Off he went with a promise that in a year or so, after the wood had cured, he would send me a photo of the finished work. I was hopeful, but thought I might never see what my tree had become. After all, people get busy and forget. I was just glad to see it going home with an artist.

True to his word, a year and some months later, Chris emailed. He wanted me to see the bowls my tree had become. He invited me to a show to pick one of the bowls to keep. I was beyond thrilled.

It took me a while to get my act together with all that has transpired here lately, but this weekend Ethan and I went out on a date. We drove to Roseville and met Chris and his beautiful wife at their booth at the Fountains. We saw their lovely work (http://www.freerangewoodworking.com/) , his woodwork and her glass work and pottery, and enjoyed a lovely visit. He let me choose a bowl, and his wife pointed me towards one I had already had my eye on. The black damage that had spelled the end for my tree had indeed become, at the hand of a skilled artisan, beautiful designs on the side of the lovely bowl.

Isn't it wonderful that a flaw can become a strength? Isn't it amazing what a master can do with raw, imperfect, damaged material? Isn't it wonderful?

I made a meal for my family yesterday, and my son hurried to get the bowl for a beautiful salad. The bowl made the common elements of the salad look elegant and vibrant.

I am grateful that my tree was not really lost.

"And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them. Ether 12:27"

Little bit big

This morning Tessa came out and asked me a very simple question.

"Mommy, is I a little bit big?"

Her voice was loaded. This was not a question about stature, and the last thing she wanted was accuracy. There was almost a worried sound in her sweet little voice.

"Yes," I smiled, thinking I might know what she was getting at. "You are a little bit big." I waited for her explanation, or perhaps her proposition. Surely she had a plan for which being "big" was a crucial factor.

"Thank you!" She said it earnestly, and with relief. I was surprised. She didn't have an agenda, she needed a compliment.

When I was a kid there was a song on the radio that proclaimed "Short people got no reason." I remember being small, and making myself little promises. I told myself, "When I am big I will not say "never mind" to children." I told myself I would pick children up so they could see over the counter at the hardware store. That I would listen to children when they gave epic accounts of favorite cartoons. I promised my childhood self that I would never make children feel small.

When I was a teenager my mother once asked the deadly question, "Do I look fat in this?" In my idiotic 15 year old brain, I saw an opportunity to give my mother an obvious lesson in perseverance. I replied, "You know, Mom, you could loose weight if you really wanted to." Now that I am older, along with a little more grey matter and a few extra kilos, I know what she was asking. She felt badly about herself, and she wanted to know if she was worth loving.

This morning I think that Tessa was asking me very plainly; Am I important? Do I matter? Am I OK? Do you love me?

"Is I a little bit big?"

To me, she is HUGE.



Photo by Cute Annmarie Hall who takes the best pictures ever.

I think I broke your arm

I did it again. Open mouth, insert foot. I was talking big for my britches, acting like I know more than I do, and embarrassed myself. I do it so often that I have a large pocket in the back of each cheek from shoving my hooves in my mouth so often. I'm like a hamster, only instead of whole carrots, I use feet.I apologized, but that rotten "I'm such an idiot" feeling didn't leave. An hour later I sought out the victim of my moronic mouth and apologized again. She said no worries, but I still have them. I haven't been able to shake the feeling. I want to say sorry again, but I won't. I have to just work it out in my head now. Becky taught me that.

When I was in college, I had a friend named Becky. She was tiny, about 4'10", and had a tiny voice like a child, but in all other ways she looked like a grown up. She was bubbly and laughed a lot, and I really loved being around her. One day as she walked by me, Becky bumped me with her ball point pen. It left a little mark on my arm and she was very concerned. "Are you OK? Did I hurt you?" I laughed and assured her that I was fine, that she couldn't hurt me with a club, but a few minutes later she asked again. Again I reassured. Then about half an hour later, she asked AGAIN! "OK, Becky, What's up?" I asked.

"Well, I guess I really should explain..." she began. When Becky was 12, she developed strange horizontal stretch marks on her shins. Her mother took her to several doctors, who all brushed her off. But the last doctor, the kind they make movies about, knew what he was looking at right away. "Your daughter has a rare benign brain tumor on her pituitary gland." He told them. It was a one in 100,000 kind of deal. Test confirmed it, and a surgery was scheduled right away. The tumor was removed through a tiny cut under her top lip and into her sinuses. She recovered and all seemed well. Then on a follow up visit, the unimaginable. Becky had another one. Not a recurrence of the same one, but an entirely new tumor. Now Becky was a 1 in a million, and she became a case for the medical books. Doctors were forced to remove Becky's pituitary and adrenal glands, along with the tumor.

Everyday, Becky carried a large Tupperware in her backpack. In it were dozens of pill bottles. Because she no longer had the glands in her body to regulate her hormones, she had to take medicines to either imitate those hormones, or stimulate their production. Things we take for granted, like insulin, progesterone, thyroid, and many more I don't even know about, were provided in pill form. She carried her medicine with her everywhere, because if a bus broke down or a storm stranded her away from her medication, she would die.

Becky explained that when ever doctors had to tweak one hormone level, it would send a few of the others out of whack. And each time that happened, she had some unusual side effects. "I know it sounds stupid," she said, "but because I bumped your arm, I truly believe in my heart that I broke it. My logical mind says it's impossible, but right now, I believe I broke your arm."

She went on to explain that this was one of her more mild imbalances. She has had germ phobias and hand washing obsessions. The worst was the phase when she believed she was killing people. If she drove past someone standing on the street corner, she would think she had accidentally struck and killed them. She would circle the block looking for their dead body. "That was a hard one." she smiled.

I had known Becky for months and had never known of the struggle inside of her. I knew she was tiny and had a ridiculously high voice (she was never blessed to finish puberty), but I had no idea about her daily mental struggle to function when all her radar was giving her misinformation.

Becky's story has gotten me through some difficult times. I struggle with inappropriate and inexplicable guilt. I rehearse conversations in my head after the fact, sure that I have offended the other person. I fret over hurting other people's feelings, not meeting expectations, and not being in tune enough to the hearts of others. I loose sleep, get physically ill, and can't shake the thoughts. I know it's getting bad when I find myself calling folks days later to apologize. When I hear the confused voice on the other end of the line saying, "Really, I didn't even think about it. I wasn't offended. You're worrying over nothing." I feel embarrassed. I have gotten used to it, but like Becky, I still wander around looking for the damage I believe I have caused.

I am really glad that I know about Becky, though, because more than giving me patience with my quirk, it has helped me to understand the quirks of others. My son Ethan will say and do some very irrational things with total commitment to their logic. No explanation will change his mind. If he believes it, then it's true. Becky taught me about my son 7 years before he even existed. Really, we all have odd little stuff. Becky's life explained to me a little about almost anyone I could ever meet.

I think the thing that I appreciate most is knowing that, in this case, I am not totally crazy (or maybe I am, but it's mostly just a chemistry quirk in my head, not necessarily a ginormous character flaw). Oh, I have those, too. Character flaws. Ask my husband. Heck, ask anyone who has been a victim of my hamster cheeks. But Becky showed me how to work on the things about myself that are hard to change, and to be kinder to myself when I fight the same battle over and over again. And again. And.... again. It's not an excuse. It's not a crutch. It is a very wonderful tool.

Thanks, Becky, where ever you are.

My life as a house plant

OK, I'm confused ("yes, we know." says the peanut gallery). No, I don't mean generally. Today I mean specifically, confused about something.

Six years ago we moved to Sacramento. We, well, actually I, believed we would be here in our starter home for about 3 years before returning to what had become our spawning grounds, Santa Rosa. Anyone who knows us has been repeatedly annoyed by our droning on and on about the virtues of the place. "It's beautiful!", we say- rolling hills covered in oaks and vineyards, misty groves of redwoods and pastures dappled with black and white cows. Eden. "Oh, the weather! " we say - balmy, not-too-warm summers with cool sweater wearing evenings, an outrageous blue sky, cotton ball clouds and hair tousling breezes. "And the feel of the place!", we say - Artist colonies, theater, galleries, cultural events, music, farmers markets, a half hour from the ocean and the redwoods, an hour from San Fransisco. All the things we love to do right in our front yard.

Lastly, "and we have such good friends there.", we say.

Oops. Something has happened in six years. Try as I might to have avoided it, I look down at the earth beneath my feet and realize I have set down roots here. I have friends. Wonderful friends, here. Wonderful friends ...in both places.

We stole away to Santa Rosa this past weekend, and because for the first time in ages we didn't have to be back for Sunday responsibilities, we stayed and went to church at our old meeting house. I worried as we walked in that we might not be remembered, or casual handshakes of recognition would let us know we had been out-of-sight-out-of-mind. But to the contrary, we were surrounded by sweet faces, beaming smiles and enormous hugs. We almost created a disruption as a crowd gathered to welcome us.

"Are you back!?" the questioners demanded. "We have missed you!" My heart both swelled and ached. I love these people. This is the place we started our marriage. This is the place where 3 of our children were born, where our friends cared for us through new babies, the death of my mother and many other trials and joys.

They hadn't forgotten us, but instead literally enfolded us in their arms in the chapel aisle. Within moments we had both lunch and dinner invites, and several offers to stay the night. It felt like we were home.

Later I sat in the sister's meeting, and a seat away sat Becky. She was shuffling through papers and didn't realize I had sat down beside her. Becky and I had just begun our friendship when I left. We had so much in common, but our paths had not crossed often enough for us to realize what good friends we could be until just before I had moved. I reached over the empty seat between us and touched her hand. She looked up, and a wave of expressions, one after the other, crossed her face in rapid succession; confusion, recognition, surprise... and then she pummeled me with a bone-crushing hug. She embraced me, wrapped her arms around me nearly twice and kissed my hair. She wept and and held on, and whispered, "I have missed you so much." Later, my family and I laughed and talked through lunch and dinner with the Funk's and the Hall's families. We fell in love with our dear friends all over again. It was like no time had passed at all.

It flooded back again, I love these people.

But there was a familiarity in that feeling. It was like being with one of your siblings and realizing that it is making you miss the others. I became aware, suddenly, of roots that I have also anchored in other soil.

I have been blessed in my life with lovely friends. When we came here to Sacramento I made an effort not to get too emotionally attached to anyone for fear of pain when we eventually left. But, wow, am I ever attached. And I get more attached by the day.
.

In the past few months a new friendship peeked around the corner. Ellen and I have been in the same general vicinity for nearly two years, but just realized that we are woven from the same cloth only a few months ago. There is a safety and comfort I feel with her that takes years to cultivate in your run-o-tha'-mill friendship. Then there is Christina, who has made me laugh for several solid days with her emails. I never knew all that was sitting across (not acrosst, she hates that) from me in the chapel all this time. Before them was Stephanie. I have known her since we moved in, but only had the blessing of her hysterically funny phone calls and monster hugs in the last year or so.

I could make this the academy awards; "I'd like to thank Nicole, Heidi, Rebekah, Joanna, the Bakers..." Wow. Have I ever got roots. Too many to name, too special to leave any out.

Sometimes I wish I knew what the future held. Since life has taken a completely different track than I ever planned, I would want to know how many of my other well-laid plans I would be better off deleting from my mental Life's-to-do list. But then if I knew, maybe I would try too hard to avoid any deviations from the plan. Deviations like making lifelong friends. I would keep my self in a pot and never let my feet touch the earth.

But potted plants never grow as much as they could when planted in deep, fertile soil.

Let's not go to the hospital and say we did

Last night I was working on a lesson I will be teaching tomorrow for a church thing. Family relations. I am an expert in what not to do, so I guess it qualifies me to teach. As I sat at the computer working away, Guy put shoes on nearly a dozen feet and headed off to baseball practice with the kiddos. As he kissed me good bye and shuffled little ones out the door, I jokingly called out, "No broken bones, please!"

Approximately one half of one hour later, Guy surprised me by walking in the door, far too early to be back from practice.

"Guess what?" he said dryly.

Ellie trailed in behind him holding her arm, face beat red and tear streaked, horrible noises coming from her chatter box.

"Oh, you're kidding me." (My ultra intelligent response to calamity). "What did she...?"

"...jungle gym." Guy stated. Of course.

Well, last week we had spirited Adam to the ER rather hurriedly. I decided while we were there that I had been hasty. Not that I wouldn't have taken him, just that I would have waited a few more minutes for him to calm down so that I could see what we were really dealing with. So I sat Ellie down with a bag of frozen corn and some arnica (our miracle bruise cream, ask me about it anytime, I should be the company spokesperson...) and my mother's ancient, tattered copy of Little House in the Big Woods.

Two chapters later, it was clear that no bones were broken, and that an ace bandage and some love would be just what the mama ordered. What a blessing. Really, I have spent way too much time in doctors offices lately.

And way too much time at my pitty party. The company (me) is getting old. So I feel like making a list of my blessings right now. Here I go:

Ellie's smile. I'm so glad it's not broken (it = arm, not it = smile, but I'm glad her smile is not broken, either!).

The kids at 3:15. So far, 5 days in a row, all smiles after school.

Guy with a cotton ball taped to his arm. He is taking on all the testing we now need to do after so many miscarriages without a complaint. When he came home with that cotton ball taped to his arm after his blood test, I felt like he had brought me flowers.

Unlimited access to our neighbor's pool. No explanation needed.

My kind friends. How could I survive being in my head all day with out a phone break with one of them? Or several?

Ice cream: Legal narcotic. Not against the Word of Wisdom.

Ellen's hands. She and I bartered for an art/massage trade. It's massage, it's therapy, it's friendship. It's bliss. If there were chocolate involved I would find no need to pursue a glorified afterlife.

Scriptures that fall open to a whole chapter that was written thousands of years ago, just for me. (Job 5). Thanks, Job.

Hand me downs. When we had all these kids we knew we would have to provide for them. I am so blessed to receive hand me downs for them to start school, and that they don't care at all that the clothes aren't new.

Prayer, even when I'm not getting answers.

Tessa's adoration of me. I have never had a child be so in love with her mama. She gets high on rubbing her face on my skin. Seriously, it's like she is stoned, she loves it so much. "Mama, you so wahm!" she croons. She heals me.

Silly hats at dinner to celebrate a new school year, complete with sparkling cider and pinkies held aloft, "dahling!". Life needs to be fun again.

My helpful husband. He knows he can't take away my trials, so when things are hard he steps it up a notch to help me deal. I truly feel sorry for women who chose men that act like an extra child and choose not to help with the house and the kids.

Past trials making current ones a little easier to bear and to understand. Just another egg. And one less trip to the hospital.

Indian Summer

Today was the first day back to school.

I HATE the end of summer. It makes me sad. It is like taking down the Christmas tree, the final episode of your favorite show, or packing up too-small baby clothes. I'd had such great plans for the summer. I was going to take the kids swimming at the river, make art with them, bake cookies, teach them Spanish, and in general, be that mom. But I just never got my act together, and suddenly, the summer was over.

I drove the kids to school, and their butterflies were contagious. I began to feel nervous for them. All three were headed off to a new school, and while I was pretty sure it would go well, ya' never know. I thought the same thing about scouts until Ethan came home that first night and exclaimed, "I'm never going back and you can't make me!"

When we got to the school, I parked and walked the kids in. A few moments after hitting the front of the school, Ethan, my big in spirit, small in stature 7th grader bid me a "too-cool-to-kiss-my-mom-goodbye" farewell and headed off. I wanted to be the embarrassing mom that hugged and fussed but there wasn't time, I had to get two other kids to their classes. I smiled and watched my big kid disappear into the crowd. Wow, am I really this old?

Next was Ellie. She is in first grade now, and there was a cubbie to locate and classroom "suggested donation" supplies to deliver. She got settled, kissed me distractedly and headed for the group circle-time that was getting underway without looking back. My brave Ellie. She has always been that way.

One more to go. With Tessa tagging behind us, we climbed the stairs to Adam's to class. I helped him unload all of his new school supplies into his cubbie, walked out in the hall for him to hang up his backpack on a hook, and then kissed him goodbye. Adam is my quiet worrier. Last night as we snuggled before bed I asked how he was feeling about school. "Excited." his voice trembled. "Are you a little nervous?" "Yes." he said a little faster than I would have expected.

He was worried about not making friends. He has had a faithful friendship with a boy named Diego since kindergarten. Adam is a loyal friend. He doesn't need a ton of so-so friends, just one really good friend. Adam also doesn't like a lot of attention. He worked hard this weekend to get off of his crutches so that he wouldn't have to go to school with them. He really wanted to know that everything was going to be okay. I had tried to reassure him, but life warned me that I couldn't promise him anything.

I stood at the door as Adam went back inside and watched him from the hall. He wandered a bit. There were kids in who had known each other from previous years standing in little clusters, visiting and giggling. There was a group of children in a circle on the floor reading books, and there was a pile of books on the floor inside the circle. The teachers voice rose above the chatter, directing everyone to select a book and quietly join the reading group.

Adam stood on the fringe of the circle, friendless, and clearly reluctant to step into the center of the circle to chose a book. I wanted to dash in and protect him from his fear, to grab a book for him so that he wouldn't have to be the focus of undue attention, even for a moment. I watched him pace the outside of the circle and then finally plunge his fists into his pockets and drift toward a wall.

I had to turn away. I took Tessa's hand and headed for the car. I told myself that he would be okay, it would just take time and some bravery on his part, but those are things you can't give to someone else, or save them from.

At the end of the day I held my breath as I located each child outside their classes, waiting for that look on their face that would tell me all was well. "How was your first day?" I asked them each in turn, but they were a little too overwhelmed for more than one word responses.

We drove home rather quietly, and eventually, one by one, the kids recalled tid-bits of their day, names of new, future-best friends, funny things their teachers did that proved they were not kid-eating-aliens, and new rules and routines. "My new job is watering plants!" Ellie said, "only not with a hose." "We have bearded dragons right in our classroom, and they are named Lilo and Stitch!" Adam bragged. "We did this maze on the floor, and when we would take the wrong step our teacher would tell us we exploded. It was funny." Ethan said admiringly. Not to be outdone, Tessa chimed in, "It my tourn! I talk 'bout my school!"

As of this very moment, I love my kids new school. That may change when the honeymoon is over, but for now, at the end of one whole day, the school has returned three cheerful children to their grateful mother. Ethan likes his teachers. Ellie likes all of the cool activities. Adam made a friend.

(Oh, and nobody had homework. I'll say it again: I love this school.)

But I was still bummed about the summer being over. I wanted desperately to make up for the lost time of the fadded summer, but as I drove over the river and saw the rafts drifting along, I knew there would not be time after school each day for those kinds of trips and activities. I resented that I would now be bulldozed by assignments, early bedtimes, and unavoidable routines.

Guilt driven, when we got home I made cinnamon toast and promised to take the kids swimming next door after jobs were done. They hurried, and soon I was sitting in a lounge chair, book in hand, the low setting sun a little blinding, watching the kids play with a marshmallow gun turned snorkel. Tessa popped out of the pool every 4 minutes to have me kiss her sore elbow. Ellie called to me over and over to watch her swim, and the boys cannon-balled each other into oblivion.

As the sun dipped beyond the fence top, the pool grew quiet and I looked up a bit concerned. What I saw in that instant made it a magical moment. Adam floated quietly on his belly on a raft, his hands under his chin, contentment on his face. Ethan was half out of the pool, his belly up on the warm cement, watching a bee inches from his nose walking on the deck. Ellie sat on the step bobbing her knees in and out of the water and watching the ripples she made. Tessa sat wrapped in a towel at my feet, rubbing her cheek adoringly on my knee, her damp little hands wrapped around my ankle. I was transported back in time to my favorite part of being a little kid in summer, when you just sat back and watched bugs, felt the sun on your skin, and listened.

I think this was Indian Summer. It was the sweet, warm memory from my childhood that I had been chasing. But you can't chase something like this, you have to just let it happen. I'm not good at letting things happen. I like to have a plan. I am learning the hard lessons... about the things in life that you can't plan, and about being quiet enough to see the unexpected blessings, too.

12 Weeks

Today has been marked on my calender since the day I learned I was pregnant. It is the day I would have been 12 weeks pregnant. My first miscarriage happened on the first day of week 12. I viewed this day as a hurdle, and a sigh-of-relief kind of day.

Today Ruth called to ask me for help. She is having a miscarriage. I told her what to do, what to expect. I sat on a case of water bottles in the Dollar Tree while my kids played in the Halloween decorations, and listened to her cry. I listened to how she shouldn't be here, how confusing it all was, how devastated she is. I listened as she told me how unsafe she felt, like nothing would ever be safe again, that she is not immune to other losses that may come. I listened as she panicked and tried to hold on to her faith, and as she told me how much she had wanted this baby.

All I could say was, "I know."

Pie might make it better

Last night I had strange dreams. There were freaky insects interrupting my prayers, there were evil cats mocking me and sleeping in my flower beds. And there was another dream...

I was walking with a woman, and though I don't know who she was, I know she was my friend. In my arms I held an immensely heavy bag that was full of food, but the bag was tearing and the food was falling to the ground. No matter what I did, I could not hold all of the food.

My friend smiled and took the whole bag out of my arms, but there was a watermelon that began to tumble to the ground. I took back the watermelon, and it was clear that it had been most of the weight of the load I was carrying, but without all of the other food falling and sliding around, I could manage the burden of it. We walked, and I hefted the melon, the heaviest part of my burden, while my friend carried the rest of my load for me. She smiled as she walked beside me.

************

Last night after soccer practice, Adam climbed up on the jungle gym to play for a few minutes. I alternated between reading a few lines from my book, then looking at the girls and glancing at Adam as they played. The next time I looked up, Adam was on the ground with a twisted look on his face. He stood up and fell back down. He stood again and took a step, and then crumbled to the ground, his leg doubling under him. He began to bawl, and I gathered him up in my arms and carried him to the car.

I had just been on the phone to Guy moments before and I knew he was busy doing his church work, so I wasn't surprised by his "what now?" tone when he answered the phone. "I think Adam broke his leg. I am gonna give him a minute to settle down, but I think we have to take him to the hospital." I sounded so matter of fact that my own voice surprised me. There was no rush, no panic, no anxiety. There was definitely a hint of "of course" and a little undertone of "what next?". I thought of my sister, mother of 10, who is on a first name basis with ER staff. Up to this moment I never understood her calm demeanour when one of her children is badly hurt. Like a chicken laying it's 50th egg, we have been here before. After a year and a half of trials, what's one more? Or, as I have begun saying to myself, "When you slam your foot in the door, it doesn't hurt so much if you drop a can of beans on your toe."

Guy sighed and said simply, "OK. See you in a minute."

We called our friend Ellen and asked her to watch our other kids while we went to the ER. After the faintest pause, she affectionately said, "Bring them on over." I learned a few hours later that she was, at that moment, heading out the door for an all night drive to Utah. A pause, that was it, and she quietly changed her plans for us.

We sat in the ER, and the room was teaming with infected people, all there because they believed they had the swine flu. We marveled at folks who had come to the hospital for fevers and sore throats. It takes blood, or possibly-broken bones, to get us in here. We were triaged, then we were the unwitting participants in a staff training session. The intake took forever. We were led to an exam room and then became victims of a clerical error.

They forgot us.

I read "To Kill a Mocking Bird" to Adam, and Guy began to pace. About an hour later Guy went to inquire as to what was taking so long. Suddenly we were getting care, and lots of lame excuses.

My cell rang. "Laine, I hear you are at the ER." Crazy, who could have known this, for that matter, who the heck was this? "It's Shelly, silly." laughed my friend from church. She offered to go get my kids, take them home and put them to bed. I insisted that we were fine, and that they were with Ellen, not knowing, of course, of Ellen's thwarted travel plans. I then called Ellen to let her know about our delay. She told me about Utah, and said she would find someone to take the kids, but knowing Shelly had volunteered, I had her call Shelly. By the time we were done with our x-ray, Shelly was on her way.

One x-ray, a leg brace, two crutches and three hours later, we were finally home.

This week has been one full of grief and sorrow, but while I have been busy carrying the heaviest part of my load, my kind friends have been here to pick up the pieces of my life that I keep dropping. When we first learned yet another tiny baby was lost, my friend Stephanie and her husband Dave came. They came and held us, and cried with us and gave us blessings and kind words. They brought pie.

I am grateful for comfort food, phone calls, last minute child care, and enormous hugs. I am thankful for friends who don't try to fix it, knowing it can't be fixed, but who have sat to cry with me. I am thankful for friends with pie, because pie might make it better.

Thank you Steph, Dave, Heidi, Shelly, Nicole, Joanna, Rebekah, Ellen, Morri and Shallon.

Unplanned harvest

 

"His children are far from safety, and they are crushed in the gate,

neither is there any to deliver them.

Whose harvest the hungry eateth up,

and taketh it even out of the thorns...

Although affliction cometh not forth of the dust,

neither doth trouble spring out of the ground;

Yet man is born unto trouble,

as the sparks fly upward.

I would seek unto God, and unto God would I commit my cause."

Job 5: 5-11

 

We lost another baby two days ago.

 

*****

All of my life, my parents had a garden. A huge, sprawling, organic garden with all of the fixin's. I can still see the rows of tomatoes, carrots and corn stalks. Every year I would name the tallest stalks after my favorite TV characters. I cried when it was time to eat "Nanny" and "The Professor". We ate all summer from the fruits of our labors, and from the veggies, too. I always knew I would have an amazing garden of my own someday.

 

It turns out that I am a pretty disappointing gardeness. In my attempts to go organic, I share my crop with all creeping things within a five mile radius. I kinda' forget to water... a lot. My compost pile has produced an earthen hive of bumble bees and a tragic little rat's nest (tragic because day old baby rats cannot be kept alive by amateurs with eye droppers when you accidentally destroy their nest with a shovel). It has not, however, ever produced usable compost. Genetics have failed me. I have two left thumbs, neither one green.

Yesterday I went out to the garden to (finally) water, and realized that not only were there a handful of dinky ripe tomatoes, but the grapes were ready as well. I picked until my hands tumbled with bunches of small, sweet grapes and plumpish tomatoes. Then I remembered my little peach tree. I planted it a year ago, just a bare-root stick that I bought at the Grocery Outlet for $6 (a fortune more than my $4 grape vine from two years before). I'd had visions of canning and gifting from my abundant garden to friends and neighbors. I have this same vision every year, but my largest harvest has usually been a few small armfuls of puny, misshapen vegetables - what ever the earwigs and birds have left for me.

 

In the spring, my little peach tree had been accidentally blasted by an over-zealous young cowboy on a watering rampage, knocking nearly all the tender blossoms to the ground. As the seasons warmed and shifted, a few, tiny, green peach babes made their debut on the slender twig-like branches; sole survivors of the water attack. But, as little growing things sometimes do, a few of the new peaches fell from the branches for no apparent reason, and a few were knocked off in a late wind storm.

For the last two months I had been hopefully watching the only remaining peach cling to it's perch like a lone Christmas ornament tucked close to the trunk. It had grown to a modest but ample gift, waiting for me, waiting for it. I wanted that peach.

I turned to the corner of the yard, and my eyes fell to the ground where my blushing peach lay. I sighed and gathered it up in my grape-cluster-free hand. It hadn't been a long fall, but the spot where it had lain had already been nibbled at by nature's clean-up crew. Sad, my last peach, lost. Some metaphors are imposible to miss.

I carried it all in, tomatoes, grapes, and my peach. Guy saw and commented. "Oh, you picked it. It didn't feel ready yet when I checked it yesterday."

 

"I found it on the ground." I said simply.

 

"Wow, that happened fast."

I set my damaged, sparse little harvest on the counter and surveyed the scene. Really, the peach wasn't ready when it fell, still a bit firm to the touch. I wondered if it could still be eaten if I cut out the bad side. I felt like I owed it to the little tree to enjoy the one token it had worked so hard on all spring and summer. I set it aside to wait one more day.

Today I washed the little peach, cutting the nibbled end away, and carefully peeled it. I tasted it... a sweet surprise. It was tender, moist, and perfect. I smiled that my tree had done so well on it's maiden voyage. I saved the last bite for Guy.

"For he maketh sore, and bindeth up: he woundeth, and his hands make whole.
He shall deliver thee in six troubles: yea, in seven there shall no evil touch thee.

Thou shalt know also that thy seed shall be great,

and thine offspring as the grass of the earth...
Lo this, we have searched it, so it is; hear it, and know thou it for thy good."

Job 5:17-19, 25-27

We also buried our baby today.



*****

Walking out of the woods (the same way I came in)

(Incomplete post begun 3 nights ago).

WARNING: Placenta Talk Zone ahead

Placenta talk is what my husband calls it when I start talking about birthy stuff. Obviously, as a doula this happens a lot. But right now I am not in doula mode. I feel like I am plucking petals from a daisy, but instead of he loves me, he loves me not, it's "am I pregnant, am I not?"

I do a roving check of the ol' bod. Nausea, check. Heartburn, check. Tender bits, check. Belly... check, I think. It is getting bigger, but maybe a little to fast. I know too much about pregnancy, and have had too many problems with prior pregnancies. Yesterday Adam asked me how many kids we would have in our family "if" they were all born. Seven.

I am 10 weeks now, right in the middle of the woods.


************************************************
(Three days later)

In my lifetime, I have lost the following:

4 sets of keys
1 cell phone
contact with several good friends
about 40 pounds of hair
my car (almost every time I go to Walmart)
my temper (1-20 times per week)
my figure
4 babies

I don't know if I want to write about this, but here I am doing it. I don't even know how. I just feel like I have to acknowledge it somehow.

I have officially fallen into a "category". Secondary Recurrent Infertility (My apologies to my one male reader. Sorry, Dave, more placenta talk.).

It happened yesterday. We just had 3 more weeks till we would be out of the woods. I am in a numb place. It is surreal, like opening your eyes underwater and seeing people standing above. Everything is muffled. I only feel what has happened when I see someone looking sad at me. Then the tears come. No off switch. So I am not looking at people.

I had to hurt my sweet kids by telling them we weren't going to have a baby after all. "Why did you tell me that?" Ellie demanded. "Why didn't you only tell the grown ups?" Adam beat the crap out of our mulberry tree with a stick. I have never seen him act like that before.

I am seeing my husband suffer, and so I want to be brave so that he won't feel worse. I am not brave.

My friends are speechless, sad, want to help. I have no words to comfort them.

My aunt told me "...four miscarriages is enough. Maybe you need to just focus on the children you have." Guy wants to punch the next person that says that.

The doctor's office won't return my call. My body feels broken. I can't fix this.

I find that the shower is a pretty good crying place. While there, a thought floated through my head. "It's easy to obey when it's easy. Can you obey when it's hard?"

I usually don't have a hard time obeying God's rules. Smoking? Nope. Drinking? Nope. Never had sticky fingers, never cut class. It has been kind of easy for me to walk dead center down the straight and narrow for the big important stuff, and most of the little stuff. But can I obey this? Can I stay faithful? Can I endure to the end?

Would someone please point out the exit? We thought we were almost out of the woods, but I think we got lost in here.

Photo taken by my sweet neighbor, Shallon Elliott, 2008.

Dinner as a metaphor

Tonight as I washed up the dishes I had an epiphany. It is absolutlely going to sound corn-ball. Sorry. Avert your gaze. But doing the dishes tonight made me a better person.

The kitchen was trashed, and though I was tempted to leave it till morning, I was actually feeling pretty good for the first time since church and figured I should take advantage of it. As I began sifting through the ruins of my kitchen, I found myself on an archaeological dig, unearthing the layers of preparation of one meal. A meal lovingly created for my family tonight by their papa, my Sweetie.

[I know, I know, I just went on and on about him, but consider this an epilogue, exhibit A, the proof that I ain't lying.]

I truly had enjoyed the meal. I had been craving a nice pork anything (some women crave pickles, I crave farm animals), and upon mentioning it to Guy yesterday he pulled some pork steaks he had squirreled away in the big freezer out to thaw (I must mention, that when I prepare dinner, fore-thought would include me counting the eggs before I start cracking them for scrambled eggs to make sure there will be enough, or checking to see if there is milk before pouring the cereal (yes, I did say dinner). If I have to pre-heat, baby, I'm Julia Child.). So as we sat down to eat, I was very pleased with the lovely meal we enjoyed. But tonight, as I sifted through the dishes and put food away, I realized I had not enjoyed the meal nearly enough. Not the way it had deserved to be enjoyed. At the time, it tasted wonderful, but it took doing the dishes to truly appreciate the meal.

As I worked, I found the food processor with tiny bits of pineapple inside, from the cranberry-pineapple chutney he created out of his imagination, and the pan that it had been reduced in. I found the bar-b-que tongs, reminding me that he had been out doors to take care of the meat, and the bags that he had marinated it in. I washed out the mixing bowl from the rosemary garlic mashed potatoes, the pot the potatoes had boiled in, and the bowl from the steamed broccoli (and swept up traces of the freshly picked rosemary that had been chopped). I wiped away the bread crumbs from the fresh loaf of crusty french bread that had been sliced, warmed and wrapped in cloth, and served in a basket. I rinsed the mixers he had used to make the fresh whipping cream, and the bowl from the brownie batter. As I wrapped and put away the left overs, I felt such gratitude. What a feast we had enjoyed. How did I not realize how hard he had worked while I was eating it?

We had sat around the table clad in china and crystal goblets, cloth napkins and fresh flowers, and giggled and visited. We had seconds and thirds, and the bread basket emptied. The sun went down and the children planned which candle they would each get to blow out. All of this, a not-quite every-Sunday tradition, created by my Sweetie. He decided a long time ago that our children should get to be treated to fancy dinners to gently teach them manners, to show them that they are important to us, and to create loving memories of time spent together.

I love that of all the squabbles had in a day, one is usually over who gets to say the dinner prayer. I love watching Adam eat broccoli by the pound. I love seeing the children's faces warmly lit by candle light, and hearing Guy as he plans out loud how he will tweak the recipe for next time, always working to improve the textures and flavor combinations. I love the winding down time as the meal comes to a close, the kids telling jokes, and Guy and I leaning against each other, all our grown-up-world worries pushed aside for a little while.

I got to wash the dishes tonight. What a joy to have seen the layers of my husbands love for his family. I got to wash the dishes tonight.