once upon a summer

In the midst of the transition between school ending and summer vacation beginning, we seem to have developed a tradition of sorts. Not on purpose . . . it sort of just happened. (I'm inclined to think those are the best traditions, after all.)

Every year, on the day after Easter, we make the local circuit of grocery stores and convenience/pharmacy stores and buy out all the Peeps that are now on clearance. All.

And then, as soon as the daily wind dies down to a breeze, we succumb to the intoxication of a campfire in our backyard fire pit.

And the Peeps get roasted.

If you've never tried it, these little pink and yellow birdies make the best. s'mores. ever. When roasted just right, the sugar dusted on the outside becomes caramelized.

Personally, I like mine with cinnamon grahams and peanut butter cups. 

And some of us just like to stuff as much chocolate in our faces as possible before we get caught.

I broke my hand on Thursday. I wish I had a fancy story about fending off bank robbers or protecting children from rabid ogres or something. But, I don't. 


I slipped on our carpeted stairs and fell down them like a two year old. Only I'm not made of rubber anymore like I was when I was 2. And I'm sure I was less graceful and made a lot more noise. 

 It's a bad-ish break that will likely need to be pinned; it means that changing diapers and typing takes longer than usual, and that I can't ride my mountain bike for about 6 weeks. But that's all. 

Last night I had a conversation with my eldest son that went something like this:

"Mom, I'm sorry you broke your hand."
"Thanks, honey. That's a sweet thing to say and makes me feel better. But it could be a lot worse."
"Yeah, like if you fell into an active volcano."


Blink. 


OK. Yes, that probably would be worse. It would be quick and painless, but worse. It wasn't where my mind was going.


I work with people who are in the process of getting diagnosed with cancer. In my job, I help navigate them through the first few appointments after they hear, "we've seen something we want to investigate further." I'm often sitting with them the first time they hear 'the "C" word'. One of my responsibilities is to anticipate what their needs will be and get them matched with a variety of resources. For example, an elderly person who lives alone and depends on a social security check may need help with transportation and affording medication.


This week, I met with a family. Three lovely young children he stays home with while she works full time. His malignancy is not only very unusual but also in an incredibly difficult place to access surgically. He is one of the very rare people I see who probably will have to travel outside of the state for his treatment. So on top of the complex logistics of arranging urgent consultations with out-of-state experts, I'm thinking about childcare arrangements, her job, the healthcare benefits she carries for the family (and the out-of-network coverage I will be attempting to mediate), travel costs, lodging arrangements and costs--and all while they really just want to be together and maintain a level of normalcy with the kids for as long as he has. 


Even I'm overwhelmed. There is an ache for people like that I can't even describe because it's so spiritually visceral. Some people call it 'survivor's guilt', but it's even more profound than that.


So, a hand is nothing. Even if it doesn't heal exactly right. In the meantime I'll wear the discomfort and inconvenience as a reminder of how much I have to be thankful for, and pray that his & his family's needs are met in glorious ways, miraculous ways. 


And I'll avoid any and all active volcanoes.
 

Moms

This is my mom and my youngest, Gracie, working on a puzzle together when we were at a cabin for the holidays.

I know I am extremely lucky, for a lot of reasons. The fact that we live close enough for my kids to know how to get to Grandma's house and where she keeps the best chocolate and which box has the bat costume dress-up clothes and which flowers they are allowed to pick in the summer time says how fortunate we are. When Gracie first started attaching names to people, she called my mom "Grama Candy". She knew where to go for sweets she wasn't allowed to have often at home.

There are a lot of things I learned from my mom. There are a lot (more than I'd like to admit sometimes) of ways I'm very much like her. I am also fortunate enough to have known both my grandmas well enough to know what traits I got from them as well.

I know my mom says that there are many things she would've done differently as a mom if she knew then what she knows now. I know that, by her saying that, I think there is a lot of hope for me and my mothering skills. I know there are many times I call her or think about how she does things when I'm faced with a particular problem (especially if it's in the kitchen). I know that pictures like this are my favorite because I remember sitting like that with her when I was that size and I remember what her voice sounded like and what she smelled like, and I know I don't ever want to forget that. I know that I want to give my kids every opportunity to have moments like that with her--and with me. I'm glad that there are a lot (more than I'd like to admit sometimes) of ways I'm very much like her.

But I still gave her a magnet today with a picture of a woman looking at her backside in a mirror saying, "How did my mom's butt get back there?"

When I Grow Up

There is something magical about . . .

Hmmmm. I typed that sentence about 5 hours ago. I have no idea where I was going with it. I was probably enjoying my first cup of coffee of the day, looking out at the (very rare) soft rain falling on the five different kinds of basil and seven different kinds of tomatoes we planted in the garden yesterday.

Was I thinking about those things? Or was I predicting the other magic that would happen today? Such as arguing with my almost-five-year-old about why it's not, actually, my fault that he hurt himself walking head-first on his hands down the stairs. Or looking at my very, very, very (VERY) independent 18-month-old's lip again to see if she bit through it or just almost through it when she fell off a bench yesterday. Or glancing in the mirror and realizing that I look EXACTLY like I did about three minutes after I got up this morning.

I recall, at some point earlier in the day, being rather thankful that I can still access complete episodes of Mr. Roger's Neighborhood online at PBSkids.org. I've decided that if I can strive to be that calm every day--in spite of myself--I will have been successful that day. I had a roommate in college who worked on the actual set, with Fred Rogers himself, when those were taped. She said that his calming effect made it one of the best places she has ever worked. She said that when he spoke, everyone listened, because when he listened, he listened completely.

How often do I do that? Listen completely. Even to myself.

Perhaps the magic is in little kids, who do everything completely. If they are playing, they are playing completely. If they are telling a story about the dragon that visited the moths in the window last night and THAT's why I wet the bed because I couldn't get up to go pee, they are telling it completely. When they are ignoring their parents, they are ignoring us COMPLETELY.

Maybe that's why Jesus spoke so highly of children in general. Kids have this pure perception of God, and of who God is, that is so unaffected by reality and -ology. They have no need to explain to us adults. They know we are ignorant--completely--about such obvious and basic things as to whom our souls really belong.

I've started teaching the pre-school Sunday School class. "Teaching", in my case, being a completely loose term. If you feel strongly about your kids learning the language of church, don't bring them to me. I have nothing to teach these kids, really. Sometimes I go through an entire class without using church-speak (those empty words we use to compartmentalize the language our souls know implicitly). They are verbal enough to tell me in unadulterated language how it is, but are still connected. They haven't been smeared by the grown-up versions of reality.

I keep thinking that when I grow up I'll have it together. I'll know more, be more efficient, more effective, more intelligent. But the honest truth is that when I grow up, I want to be three again. Completely.

Balancing Momism

If there is a reason I seem scattered when you talk to me, it's probably because there is one. Actually, five:

1. Clay 

2. Tyler 

3. Liam 

4. Gracie 

5. Memorial Health System 

You will eventually see photos and get a glimpse into the first four if you decide to follow this blog--like watching someone wreck on their bike and you just can't look away. (Trust me. My husband owns a bike shop. I've witness a few spectacular crashes.) 

The last is my job, to which I've obligated 40 hours of my life every week. I won't bore you with the details; just trust me that working within any healthcare system that actually cares about patients is like having a very large orangutan with ADHD shackled to your wrist in an angry law office. You turn a few heads, for better or worse. 

There is a constant balancing act, and I'm never dead-center perfect. NEVER. Lately I even feel like there might even be a teeter-totter under me, or one of those labyrinth games where you have to get the ball in the hole and keep slinging it back and forth on either side but never in. 

It is, admittedly, frustrating. I cram a weeks worth of laundry into a day and a half every weekend. I try to cram a day's worth of meaningful conversation with my family into the few minutes between dinner, homework, piano and bedtime. 

Don't get me wrong--I wouldn't trade it. Not right now, anyway. (And I don't want to imply that moms who don't have a job outside the home don't work: people who say that just want an uninformed and lame excuse to be jealous.) Some of the funniest things my kids have said are in those moments between. And I know that someday, when they're grown, I will want this back. I've also learned to laugh at myself more, when the lines between my home and job cross at odd moments.

For example, I recently answered one child who told me the computer wasn't working, "Do you want me to come look work next Wednesday for you?" I was typing an email about a meeting as I was talking. And I have been known to ask my co-workers if they needed to go potty. I've shown up to work with my scrubs inside out. I've gone out in public with silly-putty stuck to my butt. And at an early morning meeting last week when one of the doctors said 'good morning how are you', I think I answered, "Coffee." 

At my annual evaluation last week, my boss told me that I was one of the people she observes and tries to learn from in terms of being thoughtful when she speaks. I think she thinks I'm really that sensitive to other peoples' needs. I didn't have the nerve to tell her that I'm really just trying to not make a fool out of myself. 

So, I'll raise this 2pm cuppa joe to all my kindred balancing moms out there. Send me your best balancing momisms, and we'll revel in the camaraderie.

Saturday. 

Surely today will be productive. Surely I'll be able to start on that list of projects. (Like writing a profound and prolific first blog entry.) Surely I'll be able to . . . .

Saturday.

What am I thinking? The longer the list in my head gets the more unhappy and driven I become, and miss these moments of joy. 

So instead, here is my list of things that might get done today . . . or might not . . . 

• laundry (always. This is a permanent item that often gets ignored simply because I don't like it, sort of like going to the dentist.)
• turn the garden (my dear husband bought the good nutrient type garden-y soil stuff that is supposed to make the soil better for growing--but he's working and then is going on a bike trip)
• visit with a friend I promised I'd meet soon but haven't worked up the nerve to call yet
• start making skirts for my nieces for their birthday (it's not till July 6th. I have to get a head start. But, if I'm honest, the stuff will probably be sitting on my counter until July 3rd.) 
• pick up, tidy, vacuum (I work full time, as does my husband. This only happens on Saturdays. Sometimes not even then. So. If you come visit, you have to keep your eyes half closed if you are a clean-freak OCD germaphobe. Acutally, maybe you shouldn't come visit. Lets just meet somewhere.)

But. It's Saturday.

So first, I'm going to finish my coffee. And then play with my kids. After all, I want my face to look like this:

   Make a joyful noise unto the Lord!  (especially if you are still in your pajamas.)