Fly Chasing

It's 4:30 on the dot. The it's-dark-outside, I've-gotta-get-up-in-three-hours side of 4:30. 

Mostly, my world has spun back into place from it's topsy turvey space-wobble of last year that left me slightly off center. Okay, slightly more off center.  Arms again cradle, milk flows, and I have refined my wickedly-cocked eyebrow to the extent that even the boldest of three year olds dare not sass. I work the long hours of my former glory, juggling loads of wash and scurried outings with the precision of a knife thrower. I have even managed to eek out some poetry and painting along the way. The rhythm of my days has pretty much fallen back into sync, and sinks, and the occasional toilet. 

But it is nights like tonight that reach into my chest like a callous hand into a birdcage, grabbing hold of my heart to rattle it. Nights when everyone else lay sleeping and I keep vigil, checking my leg every hour or so to see if the tingling and twinges, the chills from hip to toe, and the flushes of cold and heat have gone from phantom feelings to something else. Something to be seen. Red skin, purple patches, swelling maybe. Proof. 

They don't come too often, these nights. But tonight one came and has stayed.  And so Sleep picks up her pillow and blankie and shuffles out the door to somewhere where her sweet release will be more appreciated. I lay in the dark, the whispered breaths of baby and the grizzly snores of her papa like two clocks ticking in separate time.  I chase at the thoughts that come like flies, successfully shoo-ing most away. But some land. The ones of fluoroscopic images of nothing, because where no blood flows, no images appear; just veins, like branching trees abruptly pruned halfway to the sky. And other flies, more pesky even, memories of hours spent gasping for air that never gave relief. Flies that take the forms of funeral plans and orphans with my children's faces. 

I talk myself down off of a thousand ledges. I pray. I reach for love and peace and memories yet to be made. 

A bit ago even dozed off... for twenty minutes. A nightmare that I can't  remember called me back to my solemn watch.  

Guy surfaced from his log-sawing a moment ago and asked why I was up. "I'm a little freaked out. My leg..."

"Get an ultrasound," he most practically suggested before returning to his lumberjack sleep. 

I will, in the morning, which will be here soon.  Though not soon enough, what with all the flies. 

So Long, Old Man

Good Ol' Toby left us this week.  He was 15 years old, almost to the day.  We have had him since he was eight.  He was a very sweet fella, loving to be near anyone who would let him, with some pretty intense quirks that resulted from abuse early in his life.  He was afraid of feet and sticks, as one might expect.  We never could explain his fear of balloons.  That was just Toby.

The list of things that Toby has eaten in his life includes socks, tomatoes off the vine (the stinker), and anything plastic - especially legos.  Oh, and perler beads... lots and lots of perler beads.  He was a good rat dog, and took out his fair share of squirrels, too.  The hamster and the chicken he caught were both lucky to have survived.  What a funny dog.

He once downed a pound of fudge.  They say chocolate can kill a dog, but not this guy.  He also survived a pretty bad stroke.  But the most amazing thing was how long he hung on in his last few days.  He seemed at deaths door, but never went through.  We finally decided to help him go, and while I don't want to ever have to go through that again, the folks at the vet clinic honestly made it as gentle and kind a process as one could hope for given what it was that we were actually doing.

It has been quiet around here.  No nails on the floor.  No cold nose on my leg.  Every time I go out to the playroom I am surprised not to see him there.  We will miss him.

A Special Day

Even though it was Saturday, I set my alarm so as to get up early.  I woke Tessa and reminded her that we were going on a special outing.  We pulled on our sweaters and I drove us a couple of miles to the greenbelt near the American River.  We walked along a little footpath and into the woods, just Tessa and I.

We found a little clearing inside a grove of trees and knelt down on the cool earth.  In the almost-quiet, a chorus of birds welcomed the morning.  It was the perfect accompaniment for what would be a lovely day.

I took Tessa to the woods because this was her baptism day.  In our faith, baptism is an ordinance that is considered a stepping stone in life.  When a child reaches the age of eight, and are able to more fully understand that their actions and decisions have consequences, baptism is a first step in a lifelong journey of service to others and dedication to Jesus Christ.  

I will admit, eight is young.  It is a tender age to make such an important decision, but as I have with each of my kids when they have reached this age, I wanted to make sure Tessa understood what today would mean in her life.  I wanted her to know that this was her choice, and not just something we do "just because" she reached some magical age.  I want her to look back at her life and know that she is the captain of her own ship, young though she may be.  Some might say that she still didn't really have a choice, as most children would do anything to please parents or other respected adults in their lives.  Well, I can't answer to that, but I do know that children, even very young ones, can be trusted with important choices, and should be taught how to listen to their inner voice.

So, wanting to give her an opportunity to test her sapling faith, I took her to the only place I know where there is peace and quiet.  We sat and read in the bible in James 1:5, that explains how if we ever lack wisdom, the answer is merely a prayer away.  That if we will ask with faith, God will answer our prayers.  We talked about the choice to get baptized, and what that would mean in her life, then I invited her to find a quiet little spot to go and have her own prayer.  She walked a little ways off, and knelt down.  I glanced for just a moment so that I could always have the picture in my mind of her in the dappled morning light, kneeling among the trees to pray.

When she was done, she came over to me and we chatted.  I asked her how she felt about being baptized, and she said a simple and cheery, "Good!".  It might seem as though I were almost trying to talk her out of it, but I wanted only to be sure she truly felt the desire in her heart to take this step.  Would I have cancelled the service if she had said she wasn't ready?  You bet I would.  Ask any of my older kids, mama don't mess around with important choices.  To my way of thinking, you value and protect most those things you hold most sacred, those things you feel strongly about.  If the kid isn't ready, those things should not happen.

She said she was ready.  We visited a while longer and then slowly left our little Sacred Grove.

***

A few weeks ago Tessa had an interview with our bishop in preparation for this day, which I was blessed to be a part of.  I sat across the room from her as she swung her feet several inches above the ground from her perch on the blue seat cushion.  She was at ease with our new bishop, and answered his questions cheerfully.  She understood that her baptism is a promise to keep her heart in tune with her Creator, to seek a life of service to those in need, and to stand as a witness of God wherever she may go.  Her answers were simple, not rote, and she surprised me at her understanding of principles like faith and forgiveness.  There is a very wise old spirit packed into that little body.

I am grateful for the opportunity I have been given to shepherd this powerful little being. 

Ah, the white dress.  Not part of the service in any way, but it just so happens that Ellie had a white dress when it was her special day, so Tessa wanted to be like sis (love her little turned in feet).

*****

Daddy and Tessa

For the actual baptism white is worn as a symbol of purity.  

Guy was bummed that the Elvis suit, as he called it, was the only adult clothing in his size.

  

Photos are not taken of the actual baptism as we consider it to be a sacred ordinance. 

 It was sweet, though.

After she was dried and changed, Tessa sat as her father placed his hands on her head to impart the gift of the Holy Spirit.  She is encouraged to always seek guidance in her life through this gift, and to rely on the comfort and peace it brings.

***

We were so happy that dear friends could surround us on Tessa's special day.  

We missed our family who were not able to join us. 

***

Can't believe she's eight.
(oh, wait... seeing all that white hair, yes, yes I can believe it)

***
Our first family portrait in, um, one, two... six years!  

What can I say?  I have been a little busy.

***

Shadow Dancing

***

Sweet angel girl.

Surprises

My Tessa-loo has been

on the planet for eight years.

I have had eight years to get ready for this, but it still sneaked up on me.  She has been growing so fast, changing so much.  She has been taking her smart-allec-mobile out for many test drives of late.  It is a familiar phase; we went through this with her sis, and they boys have had their own versions as well.  But even with all the stretching limbs and changing vocal pitch, I still wasn't ready for this whole

growing up thing.

I mean, where does she get off?  Honestly.  The nerve.

I was thinking back to her baby days, how I was so surprised on the day she was born to see that she was a little girl.  To her birth and her nursling days (okay, years.  So sue me), and how much she adored to snuggle with me.  She was a serious baby, with an intense gaze and little humor.  She was always a head turner, but didn't ever want the attention she unintentionally attracted.  She still is pretty serious, as her tummy troubles would attest, but she has developed a fun little sense of humor.  She is creative and bright, and so, so dramatic.  She loves music and dancing.  She is sweet to The Littles, and can be very helpful to me.  

We are blessed to have her in our family.

Happy Birthday, Tessa.

***

(Photo of the birthday girl by the amazing Annmarie Hall)

***

I had help with the "surprise cake" Tessa asked for.  It was a surprise in more ways than one.  I did have a plan...at first.  It was to be a green cake with a cute white picket fence around the outside.  On top was to be a little sculpted brown horse with a white patch on his face, and sweet flowers at his feet.  

As the day wore on, my plan dissolved.  Time was fleeting, and as Jonah-boy was trashing rooms, baby was crying and phones and doorbells were ringing.  Well, doorbells weren't, because ours has been broken for years, but you get the idea.  The cute little horsey I sculpted kind of was a flop (It's not important why, but I blame the fondant.  If I could've used clay I would have rocked that colt).  As usual, nothing was going according to my plan.

But Tessa didn't know what my idea had been.  She had no preconceived cake notions because she had handed over the pastry-plotting to me.  She just trusted me.  Trusted that I was going to make her an "awesome surprise cake".  By the end of the afternoon I found myself out of energy and ideas.  What if I just covered the cake with polka-dots?  No, the voice in my head said, you have to do something that is special to Tessa.

Jonah kept pestering me to help, and I finally gave in.  What harm could it do?  We rolled and cut and moistened fondant, and eventually, we had a cake.  Not the cake that had been in my head.  Not the cake with a picket fence.  

But a cake.  A nice cake that she loved.  

It has taken me years to be okay with switching gears; with giving up on an idea or a plan that isn't working because I've become attached to the fantasy, even if reality is telling a different story.  It's getting easier and easier to stop and take inventory, and see that sometimes the best idea isn't the "vision", but the one that you can realistically make happen.

(with polka-dots.  Just a few)

The last surprise was thanks to an inordinate amount of food coloring.  I promise the purple was not muddy-grey in real life, and I swear I don't do this kind of thing on a regular basis.  I make my kids eat broccoli and fruit and drink tons of water.  But once in a while, we eat rainbows.

The Boy Who Could Fly

What do five frogs and my son Adam have in common?

More than sixteen feet, that's what. 

17 feet and 5 inches to be precise. 

Wow. That's all there is to say. Just wow. 

Thoughts from the side lines: Part II

This week my usual exercise routine was interrupted by an unscheduled sick baby who was stuck in overtime. On Tuesday, my lack of sleep caused me to succumb to the temptation to stay the heck in bed until... well, never you mind that. That's between me and my Egyptian cotton sheets. 

Aaaaaaanyway, that afternoon my accountability partner for my latest attempt at losing weight, Danielle,  offered to come by after work to exercise with me. Of course, being that I like food more than pretty much anything that's not related to me, I need the extra calories I earn with my workout.  I agreed.  

I have never worked out with this friend before, and I don't know why exactly, but having her newness there compelled me to step it up a notch or five (because plank jacks aren't hard enough, I had to be all Rocky-Shwarzenegger about the whole thing). 

Three days later I am STILL feeling it. 

In Adam's race today he was pitted against his friend from church. They took off like mad hornets from the start, but Adam's friend pulled ahead after a bit. Adam fought to retake the lead but missed by a few yards. I noticed that after the race, both boys were totally fried. There is something a little magical in good-natured rivalry that compels us to push ourselves a little harder. Maybe it's just that by surrounding ourselves with good people we can't help but want to see the view from up where they are. And maybe we see them as mutually fragile and fallible beings, and become inspired as we see them make themselves into persons to be admired. Maybe we just don't want to be left behind. 

I am really starting to see how important it can be to have another someone there to push you along. Thanks to those who push me to become a better version of myself. Laine 2.0. 

Boy with Heart

Adam is a boy with a lot'a heart. 

 And most thankfully, that heart is healthy.

Thanks to a reader here, who suggested that we have Adam's heart checked (thank you, "Physician Worrier"!) we took Addy to the pediatrician, who sent us for a chest x-ray and E-something-G, which then led us to a visit with the pediatric cardiologist who did an echo cardiogram (when Adam asked what that was we told him a doctor would yell into his mouth and then stick his ear up to listen for an echo).  When all was said and done, the verdict was:

Adam's heart is only large in the metaphoric sense.  

He is very healthy.

And very happy, because he got to race yesterday.

That boy is fast.

(and he ate a great lunch before the race)

***

I find I am loving the track meets.  It is quite a different experience from soccer.  In soccer there was only one place to look, and that was wherever the ball was.  With track, there are no less than 4 events taking place in a given moment.  

In soccer, when a kid makes a goal, the audience cheers for their team.

In track, as the kids race by, the audience cheers until the kids cross the finish line.  And they cheer for every kid, particularly if one falls or is last to cross the finish.  There is a feeling of fellowship in the audience, and every kid feels like MY kid when they are struggling.  

In soccer, parents can be heard yelling directions at their kid, and criticizing the ref.

So far, in track, I have only heard parents complimenting skill and effort, no matter whose.

In soccer, the coach decides who plays when, and in what position.  In track, a kid decides what he will compete in, and may change his mind, even up to the last minute.  Perhaps he doesn't feel strong enough to compete after a hard race so he chooses not to try his high jump that day.  Or perhaps he wasn't planning to do the 100 meter, but all of a sudden feels like it.  Why not?  I love that they are being encouraged to listen to their bodies, and make their choices themselves.

And you know how they say "There are no losers?"  In track, there really aren't.  Even though the kids race in groups, there may be 20 kids in one race taken in heats.  No one will know who the ultimate winner is until all the numbers have been crunched, and honestly the kids don't even seem to care.  There is a person with a stop watch at the end of each lane of runners, and as that runner crosses, the person informs the runner of their time.  At the end of the day, the kids are only racing against themselves.  Personal best, they call it.  It is amazing.

During a particular race yesterday, three girls, two from our son's school and one from the host school were racing.  They took off at the pistol, but one of our girls began to stagger and stumble, nearly falling.  By the time she got her footing she was several paces behind the other two girls.  It was a short race, and as they crossed the finish line, the two leaders turned and immediately wrapped their arms around the girl who had faltered as she crossed the finish.  She walked between them, crying a little from disappointment, and they comforted her, neither caring about their time, or who "won".

At another moment, a little 6th grader in dead last was dragging himself at the end of his last lap on the mile.  At that moment, a teammate of his ran along the side of the track keeping pace with the boy, calling encouragement to him.  The boy perked up, and ran with just a little more spring in his step all the way to the finish line.

I  felt like I had arrived on a new planet, where all that mattered was doing better than you had in the past.  Where the lines between teammates and opponents blur and doing your best made you a winner.  

Cool planet.

When we were leaving the meet, Adam said, "I do better when there is someone ahead of me.  When I am in the lead I don't try as hard to do my best as I do when there is someone ahead of me."

I do my personal best when there is a good example to keep up with, too, don't you?

Another Trip Around the Sun

My sweetie had a birthday today.

One year better.

The layers of days and smiles and tears all pile up.

We never know what a new year will bring.

The Middles (Ellie and Tess) and the Littles (Jonah-boy and Nat) and I had gone shopping for gifts.  I don't recommend being outnumbered four to one in a public emporium.  The weight of experience carries with it a decrease in speed, or maybe it was just Mall-ing it after 8pm that had caught up with me.  I was tired before we even got started.  

We stumbled into the "As Seen on TV" store, and I wasn't thrilled to be there.  If you want to see 3 kids go nuts, show them every goofy gadget ever sold by a loudmouthed Brit during a commercial break from, The Clapper to Chia Obama.  But it was not just the visual chaos of the store mixed with the zeal of my lil' shoppers that had me feeling off; the last time I was in this store, the shop owner committed a crime against humanity (well, actually my vanity).  He called me a grandma.

Specifically, my kid's grandma.

It was painful, shocking even.  Feeling ancient is one thing, it's entirely another being accused of it by a Mall-bound peddler-man.  Worse yet, when I explained they were indeed mine, he hadn't believed me!  So, the other day when Tessa told me she wanted to get the ultra-cool french-fry cutter for her daddy that she had seen in THAT store, I had to swallow my wounded pride.  Gulp.  Let's just say that put me WAY over my calories for the day, but I did it.  We left with the fry cutter and a gadget for washing car windows.  The peddler man was happy, and not once did he accuse me of being these kids' grandmother.  I guess he knew a grandma would be too wise to try and shop with four kids.

Guy recently got asked if he was a grandpa, too.  I guess we are reaching that age.  I never knew the 40's were the beginning of the geriatric years.  At least he is, and will always be, a year and a half older than me.  Wow. 

 He's ooooold.

***

I made Guy a cake.  Lots of layers, like him.  Very sweet, again, him.  Kinda complicated... him.

Oh, and I made it from scratch, every last itch of it.  I mean inch (see what I did there? Scratch, itch... never mind).  It was a lovely 4 layer chiffon, with mouse, cheesecake and ganache fillings, and a yum-o buttercream frosting.  Now you might think that that is too rich, and you'd be right.  When you have a rich life, why not have cake to match.

(and in case you were counting candles and things didn't add up, Guy is not 33.  We were out of candles, so I scrounged up four single candles and if you add the two threes together that's six...46.  Yes, I know it is a stretch.  Math was never my best subject.  Maybe if they had involved more chocolate...)

The Courage in Between

14 feet, 6 inches

Adam had his first track meet today.

He jumped 14 feet and 6 inches, flying through the sky like he had wings at an impossible distance.  I was awestruck.  But this was not his first jump.

His first jump was 13 feet and 8 inches.  His second, he made it 13 feet 10 inches.

You get three tries.  His third was his best.

So of course I was impressed at his improvement.  But it's what happened about an hour before he jumped, and what has happened since this afternoon, that will remain in my heart.

Adam was set to run the last leg of the 4 man relay.  He'd apparently shown a lot of promise in practice, and was chosen as the "anchor", the one who could bring up the rear and lead the team to a win.  We were excited to be sitting fifty feet before the finish line.  

Adam received the baton at a trot, and then with a burst he exploded into motion.  The team was in second place, but not for long. As he drew closer to the finish line, I was amazed by the look of ferocity and determination on his face.  His arms looked like pistons pumping in time to the blur of his wide steps.  The hours spent in recent weeks lifting weights payed off in the ripples of lean muscles that suddenly seemed to pop out on every inch of him.  I felt a thrill rise up in me that surprised me as he flashed by.  It called out "that's my boy!", but only in my head.  Out loud, my mouth yelled, "Go! Go! Go!", but it seemed like I wasn't calling out encouragement so much as I was simply narrating what already was.  Look at him GO!  

He pulled right up to the last runner and bolted past.  It was glorious.  He was headed for the finish line!  As he crossed right in front of us, in a split second and a century, depending on if you ask my eyes or my heart, I saw his legs sort of buckle, and with all that speed and fury, he plowed into the ground. 

He rolled once, and again halfway, before the force that had driven him finally let him stop.  The baton flew from his hand and for a moment he barely moved.  In that split second my heart also split.  "Ooooh!"  the crowd called in sympathy.  I felt a dozen things, all in my mother heart, imagining what the world must suddenly look like from down there on the ground.  Embarrassment?  Pain?  Shame?  Humiliation?  I could barely stand it.  I knew in that moment that he had to get up - to be able to live with himself and ever set foot on the track again - he had to get up and finish.  "You can do it!" I called.  Others did too.  He rose to the chorus and trot-stumbled across the finish line, last place.

I let my eyes linger on him until the crowd of his teammates and a few adults gathered around him.  If I couldn't be there for him, at least somebody was.  Only then did I let my eyes fill with the tears that had been waiting till I knew he was okay.  I turned to look at Guy beside me, and was met with his glistening eyes.  We would talk later, about how this had thrown us back into our own teenage disappointments.  We have both had our stumbles in front of a crowd, but I don't think anything we had experienced could compare to this literal fall.  How a parent's heart can ache for a child.

Before his last event, I talked with him.  He seemed okay, though the road rash in about 8 places told a different story.  But he didn't falter.  When I asked if it hurt, he said, "Yeah, a little, pretty much... a lot."  

"I don't know what happened," he said, "I think I blacked out."

He had.  As we put it all together later, it turns out that a granola bar and a carton of milk way back at lunchtime and nothing else can make a body feel faint.  He said that the world had all gone black, and he felt his legs buckle under him.  He said next he was dreaming that he was at a track meet, but then when he woke, opened his eyes and saw that he was, he was confused.  It was like someone had just dropped him down into the middle of the meet.  He thought "baton", and then "stay in my lane", and then "finish".  

And he did.

Yes, he fell.

Yes, he jumped 14 feet and 6 inches.  

And it was the courage in between that I will remember.

Sour Puss

I would tell you  

how I am doing these days,

 but instead

 I thought I would have Natalie illustrate.

Yah, that about sums it up.

(are your cheeks puckered?  Is your mouth watering?  Mine too)

She sucked on this lemon for about 10 solid minutes.  

After every fit of spasms, 

she would go right back for more.  

Some of us can be gluttons for punishment.

Photos by my dear and talented friend Annmarie Hall, who wisely

 uses a high speed shutter setting whilst catching the antics of my kidlets.  

All the best reasons

What is most important?

Where does the true value in our lives lie?

What is the first look your kids see on your face in the morning?

What are the first words they hear?

When you climb into your weary bed at the end of the day, 

do you wish that you had done more dishes?  

More paper work? 

Are you proud of how you have lived the last 24 hours?

Someone asked me these questions this week.

I didn't like my answers.

******

Tomorrow morning is a new opportunity to make better choices.

And with faces like those to look into, 

who couldn't try a little harder?

A Little Something Sweet

Valentine's is a day for lovers.  Well, if you don't have a bazillion kids it is.  If you have a bazillion kids you have to get creative.
NO, NOT THAT.  That's how you get a bazillion kids!  Geez.  Amateurs.

 Creative as in; ditch the bazillion kids (5 out of 6, anyway), share cooking duty to make your own dinner but then pretend you are at a fancy restaurant, hang out with a few great people and their sweethearts, sup on scrumptious food (is it wrong to compliment our own cooking?) and...well... do your own dishes.  But hey, the dessert turned out great, and the company was excellent.

Flourless Chocolate Cake

1 pound semisweet chocolate chips

2 sticks butter, plus 1/2 tablespoon

8 large eggs

1/4 cup sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

1/2 teaspoon salt

Directions

Preheat oven to 325 degrees F.

Okay, this is the most annoying part, but don't worry, it's quick, or if you hate it, just dump it all in a well greased pan and hope for the best.  Take a spring form cake pan and wrap the outside with foil.  

 Melt chocolate and butter in the micro, stirring every 30 seconds.

Meanwhile combine eggs, sugar, vanilla, and salt in a large bowl and whisk with an electric mixer until frothy and almost doubled in volume, about 5 to 10 minutes. Fold 1/3 of egg mixture into chocolate mixture using a rubber spatula. Repeat this process 2 more times – until all of egg mixture has been folded into chocolate mixture.

Pour batter into prepared spring form pan and place in the roasting pan. Bake until cake has risen slightly and edges are just beginning to set, about 40 to 45 minutes. Remove cake from roasting pan and cool on wire rack to room temperature. Remove foil, cover, and refrigerate overnight.

Remove cake from refrigerator about 30 minutes before serving. I topped mine with Chocolate mouse and garnished it with raspberries and chocolate hearts.

Kathy, her folks, and Joanna and William

(oh, and us)

The years are beginning to show.  There have been 19 of them, after all.

Wayne and Kathy, and us guys.  We all cleaned up real nice.

Trying, on Ice

 

We spent President's Day ice skating.

The rink was recovering from a fire, so there wasn't much but the original walls and the ice rink left.  We sat on old bleachers and cheered for the girls as they skootched slowly by.  Ellie's friend Ruby has trained in Roller Derby, and that soon translated into a speedy, confident glide.  Ellie was awkward but willing, and little friend Kaylee was gripping the wall for dear life but not willing to quit.  It was Tessa who worried me.  She went once around the rink, white knuckled and gripping the wall, and was soon back at the bleachers with that look.  You know the look?  The one that says, this sucks, my feet hurt, you're mean for doing this to me, and I want to go home. Yeah, that one.

I tried to balance my mama response the way you balance on ice skates; not too far one way or the other, and not buckling at the ankles.  I told her I knew it was hard but that I knew it would get easier with a few more tries.  I told her she could try more, or sit with us, but that we would be staying the full time, and that if she would like to complain she was welcome to do so out in the van.

She opted to go back out on the ice.  Good choice.

The girls skated for a good 3 hours and begged to stay longer when it was time to go.  Tessa's efforts had payed off big time, and she went from wall-hugger to wind-in-her-hair, passin'-up-the-slow-pokes good.  As we walked out of the rink area to return their skates, they rode that high that only comes when you have your own shoes back on; your feet feel like heaven, walking seems slow and jarring, and your legs feel like rubber, but you know you just came as close to flying as a person can come with both feet on mother earth.

"This was so fun!  We have to come again!  I want to do this for my birthday!"  Tessa gushed, trudging along on Gumby legs.  I think it was the first time I have ever been to a rink and not also skated myself, but just watching the girls, playing with Natalie and talking to my sweetie, I had as much fun as ever.

That night before bed, Tessa said, " I am so glad that everyone was safe and no one was hurt at skating."
It was a lovely little gratitude.
I was glad,
glad for all that,
and glad that she had been willing to try.

Tessa flying by in a pink blur

Natalie's new fave toy... crinkly granola bar wrapper. 

 Take that big, expensive, name brand toy!

So pretty.

Smaller Bites

I am not great about the whole babyfood thing.  It's not that I don't like sitting in front of a highchair with a baby all bibbed-up and ready for a mush mack-down (though I actually am very anti-bib.  I don't see the point in adding one more layer to the outfit I will have to wash anyway.  If they were more like a tarp I might reconsider). Spoon feeding a baby just doesn't occur to me too often, because I tend to just start my babies out on tiny, itty-bitty morsels of food from my own plate.  I start with rice that I soften in the tips of my fingers and place in their gummy little mouths.  Then small pieces of banana and soft potato.  The tiny tips of broccoli easily follow, and before I know it, I have a baby that is eating what we are, just in smaller bites.  Sometimes I do grind it in the hand mill, but in my entire career as a mama, I have only bought two jars of baby food - prunes - for a baby with gridlock.  Why? 'cause dude, I ain't grindin' up some nasty ol' prunes.  But I digress.  You would expect no less from me.

 *****

Lately I have missed writing on my blog as often as I used to.  Life is certainly busy, and evenings are now spent working on paintings about 4 to 5 days a week.  But I think the biggest problem is that I am waiting till I have enough time to write better, more edited, and more detailed posts, and in the mean time I am missing what this blog was meant to be for me; a journal and a place to explore some creative writing.  Because, as much as I love you all coming to read my silly thoughts, I still need to record our lives for my kids to read later.  It turns out that I do it better on a computer than in a notebook.

So I'm going to try my hand at smaller bites... smaller posts, more often.  Maybe not as polished, but none the less sincere.  Hope you don't mind.

So blessed

It was a year ago today.

My first blood clot.  My leg got stiff and then painful, and then our world sort of fell apart.  One year ago today I met Jane, and Dr. F. and many others who would care for me in the coming year.
One.  Long.  Year.

I went today for my usual blood draw to test the clotting of my blood.  Virginia took me back and asked how I was doing.  I told her of my little anniversary.  She said, "Well, you must be very grateful, I mean, well, after all that with the woman in the news."

I didn't know what she meant.  I don't watch broadcast TV or see much news.

"There's a mama that had a DVT (deep vein thrombosis, or blood clot) and it caused a pulmonary embolism and now she's brain dead.  Apparently, the family wants to let her go, but the state is keeping her on life-support to save her baby."

I tried to focus on the calender on the wall.

"Yes," I said, "we are so grateful.  I have been so blessed."  I don't remember if we talked anymore after that.  I think I told her "See you next time".

I walked through the hall pressing my thumb into the cotton ball taped to the crook of my arm.  I walked fast as tears filled my eyes, like they are now as I think back on it.  I got to the van and drove home through a few more tears.  Needing to be mothered, and Francine not picking up, I called Ruth, who doula-ed me long distance as I made my way home.  I mean, of course I knew I was okay, but having heard that story, having spent the past few days reviewing in my mind all that has happened, and having a close friend lose her sweet baby this week, all spiraled into the perfect emotional storm.

Walking into the house, Guy saw my cry-face (tear streaks and puffy eyes, and rudolf nose).  I told him.  He held me.  I cried a little more.  "We were very blessed," he said, "Not just blessed, we saw miracles."  And then he held me some more.

When I think about how often we were held during that time I am so truly grateful.  We were held by God, by loved ones, by excellent caregivers, by dear friends, and by untold numbers of strangers.  We were held in prayer, in thought, and in hand, as so many participated in the day-to-day upkeep of our spirits and our family needs.

This afternoon Adam found the little olive wood cups filled with shells from the Red Sea that Ruth's mama, Marta, brought back from the Holy Land.  I showed them to Kathy and told her how Marta had been praying for me at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem while I was in the middle of it all.  What a sweet reminder, all those tiny shells, all of the prayers.  What a blessing.

I know that we will face challenges in the future.  We have not reached some magical difficulty-deductible.  There have been and will be more, but I know that God knows our family, and yours, because we are all part of His family.  I know the comfort and peace that come amid the tempest.

Whatever your storm, whatever your trial or challenge, Heaven knows you.  You are loved.  God will not waste your pain.  Peace, peace, be still.

I am a blessed woman.  So blessed.  And so are you.

*****

1. 
   

Dear FTM

Dear First-Time Mama,

I saw your struggling on Sunday a few weeks back.  You were battling with a little walker, one that was in full blown explorer mode during a Grown-up sit-down-and-act-reverent meeting.  With tears of frustration you wandered the halls, lamenting that there seemed no point in even being there.  I tried to offer some encouragement, but I was being called into another grown-ups meeting of my own, for one of my not-so-little boys.  He was being given a new responsibility and I was to be there for support, like I wanted to be there for you.

Being a "first timer" is not very fair.  You are a mama in a time that is less information highway and more information geyser, blasting out facts and opinions dressed as twins, and drenching you.  Every fool, wanna be and meanie, every professional and every wackadoo has staked out a parcel of cyber-turf, and finding an answer that fits is like shopping for a bra online - they look good on other women but will they really feel good when you try them out yourself? Floating your problem out into that ocean may steer your tender new-mama heart into shark infested waters. Commenters hide behind waves of anonymity, free to boldly criticize in a way they never would dare to a sister or friend, or a stranger to their face for that matter.  They extol borrowed wisdom from who-knows-where with out even fully understanding it themselves, and of course neglect to site their sources.

Now, I am the first person to turn to the World Wide Wonder that is the web when I am at a loss, and after 17 years on this pregnancy and parenting train I have learned what to ignore or laugh at, and what to truly consider.  And, I am first-timing it myself - balancing precariously on the tight rope of teenage-tending for the first time.  I have never been the mama of a 16 year old, and I imagine that I have the same white-knuckled expression on my face when I deal with my big boys that you, FTM, have on yours a lot of the time.  But going on 6 times of mom-ing little ones, I have a little that I can share.  Here she blows:

*  You were chosen by God to raise THIS child at THIS time in the world.  Those are some pretty great references.  I would trust them.  Others may have ideas for you, but other than you yourself, the only other authority that matters is the one from above.  Before you make a big change, ask your Father.  He knows what you should do.

*  You probably won't ruin them.  You will screw up, it is true.  You may yell when you swore you wouldn't. You may not be Job in the patience department (although if you read Job, neither was he sometimes.  He didn't turn his back on God, but he let fly with some hefty complainin' here and there!).  The most important thing you can do is to apologize to them when you mess up.  Let them see you correcting your mistakes, and you will have taught them the greater lesson.

*  Ask for real live help from real live people who you know and respect, and whose children are models of what you would love your kids to be like.  Stay away from nameless, faceless forums.  Have a few mamas who you can call upon as your Mothering Mentors, and rely on them in those rough moments when you are on the edge of the cliffs of insanity.  I have no less than six, and I call them for each of the qualities that they excel in when I am in need of coaching.  My sister, Kori, is my go-to-gal for handling the really chaotic times when the needs of one child collide with those of many others (I remember calling to ask, "What do you do when a sick toddler wants you to hold them all day?"  Mother of only 8 at the time - now 11 -said, "You hold 'em.")  For balancing the needs of my children with the needs of other people in my life I call Ruth.  For reading the hearts of my children, I call Francine.  For sickness, Claudette.  Each person that I rely on has a special talent, and I am grateful that I can lean on them in times of need (Come to think of it, I have way more than six!).

And now to that hard one that my friend struggled with.

*What is the point of going to church when neither you, nor your small child, seem to be getting anything out of it?  Well, the nice thing about church is that it is usually very repetitive, reviewing the same basic principals over and over through the years.  It is one of the reasons some folks judge church-going to be a waste of time, since we don't learn "new" things all the time.  Well, everything that you do know was once "new" to you, and it will be to your child, too, from the time they can understand language, whether they seem to be listening or not.

 I will never forget the time I was reading to Ethan as he spun around on his heal, looking at a book and singing a song.  I scolded that he wasn't listening, and he countered by repeating back the last two sentences I had read to him.  They are listening.  They hear bits and snatches.  If your family culture includes going to a house of worship, your children will learn over time in little doses how to act and what is expected.  And because you have had this as a part of your life for years, you will also hear and understand in bits and snatches, calling back to your memory the concepts of faith that you already hold in your heart.

Go.  You will see the people you love there.  You will feel uplifted by the spirit of community there.  You will be blessed for your efforts.  You will be teaching your child your family culture through your example.

And if nothing else, I will get to see you there, and I always enjoy that.

Now, this makes me think of a few things that I think are important, even if they don't apply to my particular FTM friend yet.  It couldn't hurt to mention them, cuz the very predictable thing about wee ones is that they grow up and begin making us crazy.  Here are a few thoughts for the years when sitting through church has become second nature.

*  Think long term.  A temper tantrum in a 2 year old is normal, in a 4 year old is annoying, in a 14 year old is obnoxious and in a 24 year old is ridiculous.  Your responses will come back around for better or for worse in the future.  I know its tempting to just buy the Sponge Bob thingy that lights up, spins around and shoots candy out its butt to preserve the peace until you are out of the check out line, but I promise, having a teen pitch a fit over a new cell phone (when they have the skills to argue Judge Judy under the table), or a young adult over financial assistance, is much worse.

*  While we're on the subject, PLEASE let your kids experience their consequences when they are young.  Don't bail them out.  If they take a handful of fishy crackers that doesn't belong to them, it is a great opportunity for them to learn about honesty, and far cheaper than the lesson they would learn by stealing a pack of gum at age 7, which is a cheaper lesson still than the one that is learned by stealing a car at 18. (Think your kid would NEVER do any of that?  Well, let me know when the next flight leaves for that fantasy island.  I'll join you)  Everything that your kids need to learn has a cheap version, and an expensive one.  Spare them the pain now and you set them up for much greater pain later.

  *  Get the heck outta your helicopter.  You don't have a licence, and you are going to rob your kids the opportunity of having practice at problem solving before becoming a grown up.  Don't rush in at play group and solve a battle between two toddlers over a toy.  Don't hurry to the coach to ask that your kid be made forward.  Don't swoop in to the classroom to ask teacher that your kid go to the party that they have been excluded from because of not doing their work.  Remember that scene in Finding Nemo when Squirt, the little turtle, falls out of the East Austrailian Current into the ocean alone, and Marlin reacts to try to save him?  His father, Crush, holds Marlin back saying, "Whoa.  Kill the motor, dude.  Let us see what Squirt does flying solo."  Squirt is fine, and your squirt will be, too.

*****

My favorite parenting philosophy is Parenting with Love and Logic http://www.loveandlogic.com/ , and I use it in tandem with the philosophies of Thomas Jefferson Leadership Education http://www.tjed.org/.

Six degrees of separation

Sharpie in hand, I sat carefully labeling little tags in adorable little borrowed baby girl clothes.  Ruth's little Autumn has outgrown them, and though Baby Gabe won't require pink tights any time soon, Ruth would like them back.  That's not to say she is planning another child.  It's not to say she isn't.  Who knows?  It's not about the future, it's about the past, and all the memories that those little clothes hold.

I totally get it.  I have a little box of clothes that I can't part with. There have been other clothes that have moved along, but to get to the point when they finally move along they must go through a process.  The levels or degrees, if you will.  Degrees of separation.

They are as follows:

First degree - I push them to the back of the drawer.  This degree is one delusion short of denial.  Maybe my baby will shrink and need them!

Second degree - I put them in a tote in the garage.  This gives the illusion that I have taken care of them.  I like illusions.  I have built my fragile grip on sanity out of them.  There is a subset of this degree I have stumbled upon.  Instead of a garage tote, a few of these items are filling my emotional needs as the outerwear on his stuffed animals, because fur on a fake dog is not enough, he needs a cute little monkey shirt as well.

Third degree - I loan them to a good friend, but I might want them back (this is the degree wherein lie Ruth's baby girl clothes).  The idea of the loan is that I am storing them AT YOUR HOUSE.  Now I feel really good, because I am keeping them, but I have freed up garage space for other important things like the broken washer and the two unused filing cabinets.

Fourth degree - I give them to a really good friend, someone I like; nay, love.  Not any ol' pal will do.  This has to be a woman I know will take care of the darling duds (I was really proud of myself when I got to this degree with Jonah's old clothes, but I will admit some stayed in Second Degree, subset dog shirt.)

Fifth degree - I give them to someone I know.  Now we are getting down to the stuff my kid never really looked cute in.  Well, lets face it, my kid looked cute in everything, but there are those items that lost their sparkle, figuratively and, well, literally.  All those shiny bits tend to come off in the wash.  I'm not saying they're crap or anything, but I probably don't have a cute "I remember when" story attached to them.

Sixth degree - I give them to charity.  My favorite charity, of course.  Because somehow we can micromanage even the things we give away.  Unlike most people, I have been known to repair items before they go into the donation bag; tack a hem, sew on a button.  I try to get stains out of little collars, and then I get sucked back in to the viscous power they hold, as I imagine myself feeding a wee-one who sits on a round bottom and with a gummy-grin, lets strained carrots spill from little pink lips onto the collar of that very outfit (in my vision I am a size six and my hair blows gently, even though we are indoors.  Also, the part of me is played by Sandra Bullock and probably includes a catchy pop song sing-along where I dance around the kitchen.  Aaaaaaaanyway...).  Now I have a fab, albeit fabricated memory with the stained, 1992 hand-me-down-from-my-sister, sailor suit! How can I possibly give it away?!?!

Back to a tote in the Second Degree.  That's okay.  It's in good company.